


The Wainrider Princess

by Kasasagi03



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action Heroine, Age Difference, Bisexual Character, Canon Compliant, Eriador, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Hope Punk, Journey and Landscape Porn, Love Triangles, M/F, Major Original Character(s), Multi, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Original Character, Polyamory, Porn with story but the story got out of hand, Post-Hobbit, Pre-War of the Ring, Rhovanion, Romance, Romantic Triad, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Threesome, Threesome - F/F/F, Warrior Women, Work In Progress, Worldbuilding, minor canon characters - Freeform, some purple prose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 45,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23878744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasasagi03/pseuds/Kasasagi03
Summary: Setting out from Beorn's House with little more than a stolen honey-cake and a borrowed sword, Frey hopes to become the next Tuor, Fram or Eärendil. However, she does not belong to a noteworthy folk or princely lineage. She's not secretly someone's heir. She's not even particularly tall or fair-haired or grey-eyed. But Middle-earth has always been a land of unexpected heroes, and to be a hero is not the privilege of the nobly-born alone.In the Wilderness, she comes across the Wainspeople gypsies, an ostracized traveller people. They are the last descendants of the hated Easterling nomads who long ago reigned over Wilderland with an iron fist. Their foreign customs fascinate Frey, and when their goals and fate intertwine, she's at risk of a greater love than just a fascination.*Expect fluffy feels and kinky smut in equal dosage, a pinch of adventure and discovery, sprinkled with some canon characters and everything that makes Middle-earth such a fascinating setting. Painting Middle-earth takes front place, with a fine brush to add detail and diversity to the blank spots in the map.
Relationships: Beorn (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character(s) Triad
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mae l'ovannen, mellon!
> 
> I'm not so good at writing meta texts like this. I like to write stories to express myself, so I'll let the story itself do the telling. However, I love reading what you think. Let me know your remarks and questions!
> 
> This is the introduction to the first part, called _"The Wainrider Princess"_. It is already more or less finished. I'm adding chapters now and then throughout the summer, while I focus on other projects, but I'll pick up the pace again in autumn. In the meanwhile, I'm also writing on the WIP parts II and III so that the journey can continue after finishing part I.

# Prologue

_Northern Vales of the Anduin  
7th of Haujamonth, T.A. 2946  
_

It was well an hour or two after she had left that Frey dared to look behind. She had been walking up and down valley and hilltop, knee deep in tall grass or gentle brushwood or climbing chill, mossy rock. The silver light of the stars had been her only guide, the moon was only a mere young sickle. She stopped when she reached a hilltop. The east wind blew gently in her face, ruffling her short locks. It carried scents of sweet linden and heady oak and ubiquitous pine, an unmistakable smell for anyone who lived in the North. Far ahead of her she could see the skyline now. A dim light had already come into the eastern horizon and it was chasing the stars further towards the zenith. One star burned brightly now there, and would not fade. Aurvandil, the morning star. Frey knew well the stories that the Northmen told. For her, it was not so much a sign of guidance or protection, but one of quiet companionship. Often she had gotten up to watch Aurvandil in the morning sky, imagining the curved swan prow of his ship Austro and the bright glare of the bewitched gemstone in his hand. He was a traveller, a homeless wanderer but not an outcast. Sometimes he tarried here or there for a morning unlike the other stars, but he never abandoned his task. Real heroes do not put down their quest, Frey thought. She imagined the stern glimmer of purpose in his look as he leaned on the steerboard and thought of her own self-exile. For Frey, Aurvandil was her only family, her only home. She turned around and sighed. To another home she had to leave behind.

Below her, the darkness still cloaked the ridges and valleys. Nothing could be seen in the valleys, not even the River. By now, she could no longer see the camp, which would be twinkling with the lanterns of the early shepherds and the bread-ovens. Everything was still swallowed up in the darkness. Soon, the bright tips of the Mountains in the west, sticking out of the sleepy mist, would gather more and more light until they were ablaze with the light of the early morning sun, shining like the pale gold of a dragon’s treasure. Like most clear mornings, the River would catch the slanted sunrays and would be like a ribbon of gold running down from tributaries in the mountains and from its sources in the North where once the gold of the Broadbeams was stolen by the dragon Scatha. But now, the Misty Mountains were still enveloped in their invisible mist and the Anduin held no gold except perhaps long lost treasures on her bedding. King Thúlin the Hidden and his Folk of the Broadbeams was all but forgotten and his treasure scattered.

She quietly said goodbye to the mighty Mountains where she was born and turned to the Mirkwood, blanketed in darkness. She had a long walk before her, and it would still be only tomorrow evening at best when she would reach the first trees of the forest. She took out a flat bread from her pack and tore a side off it, putting it in her mouth as she shouldered her backpack. She planned to take her first real meal only when the morning star had faded. The short pause and the wedge of bread should be enough for now. She was still too close to the camp and she didn’t dare to take a longer break. Soon, she would be followed and there would be searching for her in the valleys, at least for a few days.

In the darkness, her fingers felt the knots and ribbons of her sword belt. Everything felt secure. She touched the hilt of her sword. The writhing dragons of the golden pommel and crossbar had attracted the morning cold and chilled her fingertips. It was a big sword, an ancient warrior’s sword, easily the most valuable thing she carried. Not that she possessed it – she had merely borrowed it. Well, not exactly ‘borrowed’ either, but that’s how Frey always thought about it. When she heard that Eormengils came up north, and was near the camp, she knew that it was time to go. The sword went with her. It was no use in some dusty old hall. She would need the sword in Mirkwood, and further east, who knew where her steps would lead her? Frey felt its thirst for for adventure and heroism, just like her. Eormengils had had his turn, now it was up to Freydis. In his hands the sword had fought goblins and wargs in the Battle of the Five Armies, years ago. But it was much older than that, an heirloom among the Men of the North. They called it Hrimfang - “Ice-tusk”. Its golden crossbar and pommel, fashioned with writhing dragons, was dented and worn to the touch, but the blade was sharp like the first ice on the pools of the North, and always cold to the touch.

Long ago, it was uncovered by Fram, son of Frumgar, in Scatha’s lair. He took it to deal the fatal blow after his own sword had broken on the dragon’s scales. Many other famous owners have wielded it since. It is not known who made it, Elf, Dwarf or human, or how it ended up in the hoard of Scatha, but it was certainly hundreds of years old. When Fram faced the ferocious dragon, all his thanes had fled, leaving him to a certain death. Only the youngest among them, Wiglaf, son of Wihstan, stood his ground and came to the help of his lord Fram. With the unexpected help, the tide turned for the dragon and Fram smote it. For this, Fram granted him the enchanted sword with the cold edge, and it passed to Wiglaf’s line rather than unto Fram’s line.

As a child, Frey always sat in the first row when Eormengils told the story of Scatha on winter evenings. She listened eagerly and remembered the joy with which she looked forward to the storytelling evenings, especially when there were dragons involved. Whenever the people of the hall cried for him to tell the story of Scatha, Frey’s voice was among them. However, Eormengils never glorified the battles and when he spoke of dragons, he always warned the children and the young housecarls that their awe always came with a cost. Not even slaying them could protect against their deadly curse.

“So it was for Túrin Turambar and Thórin Oakenshield but also for King Fram,” he had said, as he passed the golden sword around. “Dragons’ hoards are always cursed. The last story of Fram and Scatha is a sad one. This is how the Northmen tell it.”

“When Scatha was defeated by Fram he discovered a huge Dwarf treasure, which the worm had stolen earlier. It is not known how the dragon came to it, because there were no witnesses. Soon after Fram had taken the treasure to his burg, a troupe of thirteen Dwarves appeared at his gate, dressed like beggars and vagabonds. When they saw the treasure there, scattered around the feet of King Fram, the eldest among them, with a long white beard, threw back his hood and stood up to the dais of the King. He claimed to be a Dwarf King, whose realm had been destroyed by the dragon, and pointedly insisted that the treasure belonged to him. But instead of listening, Fram mocked him, and said that he earned the treasure by killing the dragon, regardless of who owned it first. To this, the elder Dwarf said: “Mighty was the dragon who stole it, and mightier indeed is him who slew it. But a stolen thing still does not belong to you even if you steal it again. Nevertheless, you have our thanks. Hand over that which belongs to us, and you can chose any jewel from our treasury that you covet as your prize.”  
But Fram threw the teeth of the dragon at the vagabond’s feet. “There,” he said, “Jewels such as these you will not match in your treasuries, because they are hard to come by." The hall burst into laughter, but the thirteen Dwarves were deeply insulted. The eldest one looked the King in the eye and said: “These mockeries alone taint your victory, King Fram. For along with the stolen treasure, you brought the dragon’s greed into your hall, and that is a darker shadow. Give me only one jewel of the whole hoard, Ring-giver: only my father’s father’s ring I covet. Then you shall have my grudging thanks for your deed and we shall leave.”  
But Fram gave them nothing and refused to negotiate any longer. The Dwarf cursed him and left the hall in anger. For years they were not seen again, and Fram became a mighty lord, famed in the northern valleys of the Langflood and beyond for his charity. But to the Dwarves he gave nothing. Thirteen years later, when he rode into the foothills of the Grey Mountains with a small party, his path was barred by twelve Dwarves, mailed and masked and wearing grey ragged cloaks. Their shining axes they raised towards King Fram in threat and they called him a thief. The Humans formed a chain of shields around their lord, but the Dwarves attacked with ferocity, shouting only “Scatha’s Curse” over and over as they hacked through the shield wall. None of the humans survived that pass of arms, but afterwards, those Dwarves themselves carried Fram’s maimed body back to his burg and left him in front of the gates. On his chest they left the string of dragon teeth.”

Frey remembered well how impressed she was by Eormengils' stories. But now, everything was different. She loved to see him again, but she couldn’t face him now. She still had to prove herself. The sword would help with that. There was no way back now. She turned around to the east and looked at the morning star, glowing low above the distant treetops of Mirkwood and she sighed sadly. This night reminded so much of that night, many month ago now, when she had snuck away with the sword. Was this becoming a habit of hers? She could have stayed at the caravan, woken up to the smell of fresh bread and woolen blankets. But was that the life that she wanted? She couldn’t answer that question. Perhaps if she had had more time. But she didn’t. Eormengils was coming north, and she better hurried if she had to become a great hero before Midwinter. She tightened the front of her caftan securely and resettled her scarf, and stepped down the ridge towards the east.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Broadbeams](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Broadbeams) are one of the seven Dwarf Clans; cousins of the Longbeards (Durin's Folk). They are more secretive and reclusive, and by the end of the Third Age, few if any of them are left in Wilderland.


	2. Freckle Frey

# Freckle Frey

  
  


As a child, they had said to Frey that a hunter had found her while hunting in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. There was a stream there which in Spring gathered the melting snow and swelled to become a great, wild side river of the Anduin. But in Autumn, it was only a small mountain stream meandering through the highlands. Someone had placed a basket in the stream with an unwanted child, and the basket had floated down. When the hunter spotted the basket, it was floating in a small lake, where the river pooled before cascading down through dangerous rapids. The lake was often visited by travelling birds in this season, and some of them had descended from the skies, landing around the baby in the basket. Somehow, with their gracious necks and wings, they kept the basket from floating down the stream into the lethal rapids. At first, the hunter thought they were looking for food, but when he discovered the baby, he knew that the birds had been protecting it.

Frey was raised in the hunter’s community, realizing very soon that she was different from the other children. To the inhabitants of Middle-Earth, ancestry is very important. People remember their lineages for very long, even those that lived humbly in the vales of the Anduin. This was quickly felt by the child. When she asked adults who her parents were and where she came from, they always repeated “From far away." That was how that tribe designated people who were orphans. It meant as much as ‘stranger’ or ‘not from here’. Her given name was Friduisa, depending on the dialect. When she broached teenage, it became clear that the small community had no use of her. They lived frugally, like most of the humans in those parts. Frey had learned to hunt in the mountains and in the vales, and she was often away for long with the sheep in the highlands. Being alone for a long time suited her well enough, and she felt less lonely in the wilderness. She never hunted birds, however, whom she felt especially connected to. She was always on the lookout for the Great Eagles, circling around the misty peaks in the distance. But they never interfered with her flock. She dreamed of flying and of travelling, seeing the places of Middle-Earth she heard stories of. At the hearth, she always listened attentively to the ancient stories. Her favourite stories were those about the hero Aurvandil, who possessed the flying ship Austro and the Morning Star that shone at dawn. She became to think about the morning star as her protector star, and often got up early on clear mornings to watch it.

The other children often made fun of her. Her hair and eyes and skin colour did not look anything like the closely-related tribespeople. She had very blue eyes and a dark skin. Her hair was chestnut brown rather than blond and she had a lot of freckles as a child. They called her an outlander and a changeling. A cuckoo's young. A child of an elf or a goblin. They called her Freckle Frey and spared no opportunity to make her feel not at home.

When she became thirteen, she decided to leave the homestead. Just as they had no real use for her, she felt that it was useless to stay. Like the travelling birds, she had to find another place to call home. She had heard news about Beorn, a man who could change into a bear, who lived further down the Vales of the Anduin. Beorn, who had lived alone for ages, had decided to become a chieftain, and gathered volunteers in his hall to become monster hunters and protectors of the roads and villages. He was not a king, but Frey thought that perhaps one day he would become one, like in the ancient stories. She had heard about Beorn’s involvement in a great war against goblins. And most of all, she had heard stories of Dwarves and a Dragon that was slain. These stories made her dreamy eyes shine with wanderlust and an unquenchable desire for adventure. So she headed for Beorn’s house.

Amid the other changes she underwent while growing up, one really stood apart. She started to have very vivid dreams where she flew over the nightly lands, soaring as high as the travelling birds and the eagles. At some point, she became aware that she wasn’t just dreaming, but that she was actually flying in the shape of a swan. Every night for a while she left her snoring body behind and flew up, fluttering with big white wings until the morning star reappeared and the dawn unfurled beyond Mirkwood in the east. It puzzled her, but after a while she just accepted it. She never spoke with anyone about it, and it became clear to her soon that other people did not have dreams like that.

She joined Beorn’s warrior band like many other orphans, feeling at home for a while. She introduced herself as Friduisa Framatheis (=“from elsewhere”, in the language of Wilderland), which quickly became shortened to Freydis or Frey. At Beorn’s house, she learned to wield weapons, because Beorn wanted everyone to know how to defend himself. But it also became clear that Beorn did not want girls in his warband except in desperate situations. Women were not trained as much as the men of his household. When Beorn or one of his captains left with the warriors on an expedition to the mountains, Frey had to remain, watching them leave in envy. Instead of learning to bake honey cakes with the other women, Frey often snuck away and watched the sparring sessions, training in secret in the pine forests nearby. When the trainers did allow her to join the sparring sessions, she chose the great spear or the long sword. Although she had a talent for the great spear, she often enough got a beating too. She often quarrelled with her superiors too, older men with authority over the tribe and who demanded respect. But Frey did not care, and was often chastised for her lack of discipline and her rebelliousness. Beorn told her that loyalty was the foremost virtue in the hall. Not loyalty to the chief, but loyalty to one's companions. Nobody would want her in the shield wall next to them if she could not learn to obey. But Frey wanted the opposite, she wanted to prove herself, and for that, she needed to excel and to be better than the others. Beorn sighed, because he knew all too well what she felt, but he couldn’t explain it to her. He was not a man of great words, but he vividly remembered the day he had been a lone warrior too.

Frey had more friends than she had had as a child. Most were boys, young wolves who trained to become warriors of Beorn. Some of the girls also looked up to her. With one friend in particular she was very close. He was one of Beorn’s senior housecarls, a veteran who had travelled with Beorn from beyond the forest and became one of his earliest retainers. Frey learned a lot from him, and he became something of a mentor to her. Eormengils was the only one of the adults she really listened to. This was because he, as opposed to Beorn, knew the power of words. He knew innumerable stories and songs, and often enraptured Frey and the others with stories. With his own eyes, he had seen the Dragon Smaug, and nobody was better fit to tell the stories. When he sang the song of how Fram son of Frumgar defeated the dragon Scatha, his verses were so visceral and so haunting that everyone fell silent. Then someone in the hall would whisper that Eormengils himself possessed the sword that had killed Scatha. Freydis was filled with an intense fascination for dragons and other monsters and decided that she too wanted to be a great hero.

After a few more winters in Beorn’s House, Frey felt her innate wanderlust creep up. She could not be idle and as the spring came and the land thawed and the wolves retreated deeper into the mountains, she went out on walks that went further and further. She saw the edges of Mirkwood in the distance, and followed the river up and downstream. She learned how to repel the wild wolves of the Misty Mountains, and learned how to survive in the wilderness. At nights, she flew as far as she could with the travelling birds, but never farther than what they could fly in one night.

Around her sixteenth birthday, she fashioned a helmet from an old bronze skullcap she had found, creating two wings of cast-off swan feathers, fixing them on either side. It was a regal helmet, and with it, she looked like a hero of old, a high Elf or perhaps a human hero like Tuor, Fram, Eorl or one of the Kings of Eriador.

Some time after that, she decided to leave, and spoke at great length with Beorn and with Eormengils. In the hall, it was the custom for some young warriors to leave on a tour of Wilderland. They spread the word of Beorn's fame and his works wherever they came, and added to it by taking up the fight against evil. This way, they learned about the ways of the world, and if they were headstrong, their learned the value of companionship. Every midwinter, these warriors would return and come back with stories as tribute for Beorn, because he valued good deeds over treasure. But Beorn did not want to let Frey go. Not before she was a few years older and a better warrior. He told her that alone, without any experience, she made no chance in the Wild. There were orcs and goblins roaming freely beyond the borders he protected, not to speak of wolves. He did not want to risk somebody out there who had yet to see real danger and lands which were unsafe.

But Frey loathed to listen to old, careful people and she wanted to see for herself. That evening, in secret, she prepared to leave. The weather would be better and the nights would get warmer in the weeks to come. Winter had barely past and the next Midwinter was still many months ahead. She put her dagger in her backpack, as well as some wilderness survival items and took some hard cheese, dried and fresh fruit and bread and stole a honey cake. She folded her clothes and hid her backpack with her travelling shoes, winged helmet and shield. She slept for a short while, and a bit after midnight, she rose. Sneaking up to where Eormengils slept, she reached out for his sword. The blade, Hrimfang, had fought goblins and wargs at the Battle of the Five Armies, and far worse foes if the stories were true. It was an ancient heirloom and a powerful weapon, and Freydis had trained with it many times. She knew that in addition to her dagger she needed a dependable hand weapon if she was to survive in Wilderland. She slowly took the sword from the sleeping warrior’s arms, not without a deep feeling of guilt. She looked at his weathered face and promised in silence that she’d only borrow it for a while. She’d return next winter at Jiuleis to give it back. But not without adding a dragon or other monster to its tally. She sneaked out while the morning star descended from the heavens.


	3. Chapter 3

# Northern Vales of the Anduin

_Middle of Hróðimonth, T.A. 2946_

After Freydis left Beorn’s house, her steps first lead her to the west, to the Misty Mountain, to see the Eagles. She crossed the River, and searched for them for a few days. Sometimes, friendly people who had built a farmstead near the banks or the foothills welcomed her. Other nights she had to stay in the wilds. But the spring was coming down from the south already and the nights were short and warmer than they had been. The blankets and sleeping bag she had brought from Beorn’s house were more than enough. She hardly bothered to craft shelters and slept in the open air or underneath an easy shelter like a tree. Sometimes, she slept in a pit, filled with leaves, like an animal. Once, she was surprised by a spring shower, and had to create a shelter from layers of leaves, because the ferns were too short still. Two sturdy sticks held up the roof, and she stayed there the whole night, huddled in blankets away from the rain.

At night, she could hear wolves howling. But the years with Beorn’s tribe and a childhood in the mountains before that had learned her the tricks to deal with that. Wolf packs were interested in weak targets only. Usually they let people alone, but a single person on foot might draw the attention of a particularly intrepid or hungry pack. However, if there was one thing that Frey was good at, it was giving off the impression that she was tough and badass. And wolves were no different than people. When attacked by wolves, she had to make loud noises and big gestures. And also, to trust on the fire she brought. As long as there were no orcs or goblins around, she prepared a big fire with enough fuel to last throughout the night. Holding burning branches and sticks also helped to repel wolves.

But apart from the howling at night, the wolves did not bother her. There was enough food now that the winter was over, and perhaps the wolves felt that she was one of Beorn’s folk, whom they were loathe to challenge. She remembered the stories of the wargs too, and the Wolfmen of the Greylin. But wargs hadn’t been seen outside the Mountains since the Battle of the Five Armies, and the Wolfmen, or Wulfhednas, lived only far in the North – and were perhaps entirely legendary. Freydis didn’t give them much thought.

She did not see Eagles either, and as a week or two had passed, she wandered further northward. There were fewer homesteads there on the western banks of the Anduin. North from there, where the River ran through the highlands and gathered volume through many rivulets and streams, it was the terrain of wolves and orcs. She decided to cross again, and did so at the nearest opportunity. There was a broad, shallow marshland that allowed one to cross it safe from the stronger currents downstream. Still, it took the better part of a day, and by the end, most of Frey’s clothes were soaked. Once safe on the other side, she made camp, and lit a fire to warm by. During the night, she had the uncomfortable feeling that somebody else was there, and she slept only briefly. She could not find out who it was, or whether they came from the other side or whether they were on this bank already. Frey was sure they would have seen her fire, but no one approached her campplace that night.

The next morning, she continued her trek, keeping the river on her left hand, without losing sight of it. A great alluvial plain stretched before her, between the high mountains of the Hithaeglir on the other side and the foothills that ran up to the dense, woody slopes of Mirkwood on her side. The plain itself was quite high, and sometimes, when she watched over her shoulder, Frey could catch a glimpse of the Anduin downstream, perhaps even the Carrock. In these highlands however, the river was an amalgam of many streams and tributaries that ran alongside each other, sometimes narrow and fast, sometimes broad and slow, immovable almost like lakes. The broad valley floor was a labyrinth of meandering rivers and lakes rather than the combined river downstream. The ground was sturdy though, unlike the marshes where she had crossed, thick knolls of grass held the banks stiff. Narrow sheep paths and wildlife tracks winded along the slopes, and on the far side, she sometimes spied wild aurochs or sheep. There were birds in abundance: migratory species who came down from the south for the summer. They were there in great numbers, geese, ducks and swans, passing over or gliding down to rest on the water. Frey watched them in rapture as she sat down to lunch. The lakes and slow streams that were abundant in the area clearly were a major rest stopover during migration season. She did not disturb them, and felt at ease. The wolves of the misty mountains she had heard in the south on the other banks bothered human nor bird here.

A few times, Frey spotted hoof tracks. In the wet mud near the banks she could see them more clearly. There were a pair of them alongside each other, solid-hoofed, shod with iron horseshoes. The tracks were not old, but they came from the other direction, so it was impossible that it was they who had watched Frey at the ford. Still, they aroused her curiosity. She tried to follow them for a while, but lost track of them in the middle of the water labyrinth. They were looking for an easy way to cross with horses, she thought. It puzzled her, because there were many places where that would have been possible, had the riders dismounted and crossed on foot. Maybe they were looking for something else, she thought. Perhaps they were scouts, but of what and what for she could not tell. It was not possible they were hunting. Bird hunters would not be mounted, nor was there big game in the area or traces of a gallop or chase. After losing the tracks in the water, she continued back on her own path. Perhaps it was unwise to insist on following these tracks. The riders were clearly well-equipped, perhaps even warriors. She remembered the tales of the Eothéod, the horse people that once lived here in these lands. Eormengils had told her that few men lived in the far north anymore, but that there were still horses and still people who knew how to befriend them. Besides, she still had more than enough food provisions left, and had no stomach to cross the river a third time. She left the tracks and continued northward.


	4. Chapter 4

# East Bank

_Middle of Hróðimonth, T.A. 2946_

The next evening, at sundown, her curiosity was challenged even more. While looking at the various species of birds in the water, she noticed an odd shape on a woody island in the middle of the watery plain. A horse! She clambered on a rock, squinting her eyes, and was sure of it. The horse was grazing calmly on its own. There were no others on the islet, nor was it big enough to hide. Freydis frowned. She saw clearly that the horse was saddled. Ribbons hung from its flanks and neck, and its head was bridled with golden disks that reflected the last sunlight.

She backtracked to the stream until where she could cross unto the island. The horse was indeed alone, feeding from the fat grass on the dry patch. It was a pretty grey dapple, supple, sturdy and not very tall, compared to the horses she knew from the traffic at the Old Ford. Frey saw that it had been wet recently. The long fur of its legs was still drying. There were no signs of the rider, even though the horse was ready to ride. She noticed that there were no stirrups though. Whoever owned this horse rode it the way of the Elves. Her hands went to the clasps of the saddlebag, but just as she was about to open it, she heard an alarming noise on the far side of the river. Loud shouts, and whinnying that startled both the horse and the girl.

On the west bank, far away from her in the shadows of the gigantic mountain, she saw a ghastly scene. Black, stooped silhouettes, waving curved swords and spears, were descending on a fallen horse. It was flailing it’s neck wildly, whinnying in panic as the crooked figures fell on it. Several black arrows stuck from the flanks of the animal. Frey gasped, assailed by anger and pain. She scowled and grabbed Hrimfang’s leather-bound hilt in her hand. She did not possess a bow or arrow, and even if she had, the scene was much too far away for anyone’s reach save perhaps an elf bow. There was nothing she could do for the horse anymore. She went back to the horse, patted it and tried to turn him away from the tortuous scene. She looked away from the gruesome feasting as the whinnying died out. Then, she saw something else in the corner of her eye. A flash, or swoop of something. There was another group of black figures that had separated from the first group, running a few hundred yards upstream. They had crossed the first rivulet somewhere, and were a stream or two closer to her so to say. She witnessed how the first of the group fell down, splashing loudly into the water. The second and third fell as well, and only then did she notice an arrow flying.

“Someone’s making a stand against the goblins!” she said in surprise to the horse. She clenched her jaw. “Let’s go! We have to help!” She tried climbing into the saddle, as fast as she could without stirrups. Mounting a horse was challenging enough for her; the last time she had mounted a horse was three years ago. Fortunately, she had grown a lot since she was allowed to mount Beorn’s pony’s, and now she had long, strong legs one of which she eventually swung over the small horse’s back. With the help of the saddleknob, she clambered more or less securely into the saddle. “Go! Ride!” she ordered forcefully, pointing at the opposite bank. "Chick-chick!" The horse obeyed only because it was familiar with a person riding on its back, but it was reluctant to go towards where they were fighting. She kicked her heels against the flanks of the horse, the way a rider did to nudge the horse forward (she thought). The horse whinnied in surprise and pounced forward. Frey yelped in terror, hanging onto the carved saddleknob only. Luckily, the saddle was securely fixed, and she did not fall. With supreme effort, she managed to catch onto the bridles slinging from the horse's neck in front. "I should probably have done this before!” she thought out loud. She steered the horse towards the far bank and it jumped into the Anduin, splashing water everywhere. Geese and ducks scattered and flew up around her, creating a helix of clapping wings and water drops. The orcs noticed her, and mistook her bumbled efforts to ride as a challenge. Indeed, she appeared to them through the curtain of startled waterfowl, mounted on a splashing horse. She had a winged circlet on her brow and drew an ice-cold flashing blade. If she were shown herself, she would have been recalled, perhaps, of the young Tuor, Ulmo's Chosen, in the heroic days of the past. But now, she was concentrating on avoiding being chucked into the water.

The first of the goblins had already engaged with the hidden archer in the reed. In the grey, sunless light, Frey saw a curved blade slashing and an orc falling into the water. A man’s voice shouted unfamiliar warcries. Most of the group of orcs, however, were nailed to the ground by Frey’s sudden appearance. They grinned at each other and turned to her instead. The promise of horse was appealing enough for them, or perhaps they saw through her and reckoned she was a less experienced warrior. Two black arrows flew past Frey’s head. She suddenly realized that she was charging towards a well-prepared marauding party of goblins, at twilight, alone, insecurely mounted on an unfamiliar horse.

“Uh...” she said, as the orcs jumped into the water and crossed one of the brooks that separated them. “I suppose you don’t have any more ideas, horsey?” She had to duck, because another arrow flew past at a a hair’s breadth away from her. She looked towards the man in the reed, who cleaved down another orc into the water. She cupped a hand around her mouth, nudging the horse into the other direction.

“Hey-o! Hallo! Run away, I’ll draw them off!” she shouted over her shoulder. The man looked at her and waved. With a might swing of his sabre, he separated the last orc’s head from his shoulder, clearing the field around him. Without hesitating, he jumped into the water and waded towards a copse of tall reed.

“Over here, you bunch of uglies!” Frey shouted, waving her sword. “You want some more tasty horse? Or you want a piece of these yummy girl legs! Come and get them!” She kicked the horse and it splashed away. Some of the orcs shot arrows at her, but most started running towards her, brandishing black-iron swords and spears. “Kill the horse! Catch the swan warrior alive!” they screeched.

“Hahaha - whoah - haha” Frey laughed madly, taken by the rush. Water splashed in her face and she slung left and right on the horse, trying to keep her balance. She swung her sword at them, even though they were hardly within arm’s reach. Another arc cut throught he air. “Come and catch me!," she boasted, "The men and women of the Household of Beorn are not easily outwitted!”

Suddenly, a few orcs she had not seen jumped up through the reed before them. They jabbed at the horse with their spears, and it startled, wheeling on the spot. Frey lost her balance and tumbled into the knee-deep water, right before the orcs. She shot up, just in time to avoid the first orc that tried to jump her. A cruel dagger lunged at her and she could barely duck to avoid it. The nearby orcs snickered evilly, closing in.

“My sword!” she shouted. It got dropped somewhere in the water. Her hands felt through the murky water. The orc tried to stab at her again. She dodged and caught him by his crusty mail shirt and heaved him up, throwing him back onto one of the others. “No!” She kicked another orc flat on his chest and he fell back, splashing. She fell on her knees, searching the muddy bottom of the stream feverishly. “Eormengils in going to kill me!”

“Not if we kill you first, man-girl!” The orcs got back on their feet and waded to where she was.

“Shut up!” she shouted, unperturbed by their proximity.

Suddenly an orc jumped on her back, grabbing her hair and yanking her back. Just at that moment, she felt it. The cool golden pommel, the ivory hilt strung with leather strappings. She struggled to keep her hand on the hilt as the orc grappled her. With a predator’s strength, he tried to push her head underneath the water. Her shoulders and neck strained to stay up as she kept reaching to get her fingers around the hilt. Suddenly, from a hiding place in the reeds, a big grey waterbird shot up noisily right before them. The orc shrieked as the wings of the bird brushed his head. At the same time, Frey heard the horse neigh. It had wheeled again in the water. A turbulent wave washed the startled orc away from her, pushing her further into the mud. At last, her hand clasped around Hrimfang’s hilt and she turned around. The horse snapped its teeth at the orc. He got up, but one of the horse’s hooves smashed his jaw. A dry snap sounded and he was flipped back into the water. The big swan or goose was gone as well.

The other orcs closed in, but the circle was broken. They came up with their spears pointed and the horse trotted away quickly. Freydis took the muddy sword and splashed after the horse. It got to firmer ground and Frey, with all her legs’ strength, jumped up on a higher bank, a treestump and then propelled herself onto the horse. Her leap landed her flat on her stomach into the saddle, breath slammed out of her lungs and dizzied by the smash. Even so, she clinged onto the saddlecloth and the horse galloped away, crossing another brook. A few arrows shot past them. Once Frey had regained her balance and gotten upright in the saddle, the horse sped away like lightning into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the interested: 'orcs' and 'goblins' have been used interchangeably here. These are the creepy, crooked fellows from the Misty Mountains, not the large warrior orcs and certainly not the tall Uruk-hai (who do not appear this far north). The story is set between the Quest of Erebor and the War of the Ring. The orcs and goblins of the Misty Mountains have been pushed back into their lairs since their defeat at the Battle of the Five Armies, but they are on the rise again. In some years they will become a serious threat in Wilderland and other lands, as the Dark Lord gains more and more power and calls all evil things to thrive and wax in the shadows. However, Beorn and other lords like him will continue the struggle in the Northern Vales of the Anduin and their lands remain safe havens for the Free Peoples of Wilderland.


	5. Gawandja

# East Bank

_Middle of Hróðimonth, T.A. 2946_

They got to the other bank safely where Frey got off the horse. She made sure that no goblins were following her across. Then she led the horse by the hand towards the hills that enclosed the valley floor. She kept watching over her shoulders, wondering whether the unknown warrior had made it out or not. It was too dark now to make out anything on the other side of the riverbed. Her boots were soggy and all of her clothes were wet and cold. As soon as she reached the hills and found a sheltered pocket behind some broom and hawthorn, she fell down, exhausted. To camp at night in the middle of Hróðimonth was one thing, to do it soaking wet was asking for trouble. Freydis decided to make a fire. She was afraid that it might draw the orcs that were perhaps chasing her, but pneumonia and hypothermia were equally dangerous foes now. She stripped and searched her backpack. Almost everything she had had become wet in the fight. Luckily, the birchbark box she used for flint and tinder had kept its contents mostly dry, and there was ample deadwood and even a few dry birch stumps to get a fire going. She spread out her clothes and placed her wet shoes upside down on sticks near the fire. The horse’s saddlebags were also worth checking out, and to her relief she found a dry woolen blanket and some provisions. Some of her own food had been spoiled, and she had to throw away the soggy bread and the last piece of honey cake.

“I shouldn’t have saved that,” she muttered regretfully to herself. “Well, at any rate, the cheese is still okay.” She got out a piece of hard, aged cheese and dried it with a cloth. When she had removed her clothes, she had noticed she had some superficial wounds, which she tried to treat now. Most were scratches and bruises from the chase. Nowhere had the iron edges and points of the orcs bitten her skin.

“Well, I got lucky,” she mused. She wasn’t even sure whether the orc she had wrestled with had survived, but certainly no thanks to her. That startled bird had more to do with it... She ate a piece of cheese out of her hand, as well as some dried meat she found in the horse’s pack. There was also a bag of a kind of dry, hard, yellowish granules, and she suspected it was some kind of wheat or seeds for the horse. Apart from this, she found hard, uncooked peas, some purplish roots and some seeds and nuts. She tried one of the roots, found they tasted like beets and gave it to the horse. “Looks like you’re in luck, boy. It seems most of this stuff is for you anyway. The other horse probably had the bread...”

Her frugal campsite was finished when she stretched out the horse’s saddlecloth near the fire. She fell down on it and huddled in the blanket. It had strange, foreign motifs in dark reds and browns and long tassels on both side. Black suns and red eyes were thickly embroidered on it. Feeding the fire a little bit more, she debated whether to stay awake or not. In the end however, her fatigue made that choice for her and she fell asleep.

The horse was still there when she woke up the next morning, which surprised her. She had of course forgotten to tie it up even though she had unsaddled it. She was still naked as she woke up in the morning dew, and the fire had died out. However, her clothes were dry, and she quickly donned them. She cleaned the sword and whetted it, putting it back safely in its scabbard. It had not seen much action. She gathered the other stuff and saddled the horse. On the other side of the river, there was nothing anymore to be seen, no carnage, no fighting, no dead horse. The stream had washed the orcs away or pulled them to the depth. She decided to keep going upstream. Maybe the escaped horseman decided to cross at another point to the north. He would be chased by the orcs, and he could use some help. At any rate, the horse probably belonged to him or his dead pal. She called the horse Gawandja, which was an odd name for a horse, but not un-earned, and not without a promise [*].

She searched for an entire day, but saw no trace of him, and she didn’t dare to cross the river. With a horse, it would be impossible. Apart from that, she suspected that orcs now watched the west bank. Gradually, the river became a thick stream again and there were some dangerous rapids and waterfalls ahead as the terrain became rougher. It would be difficult to cross here even on foot. Late in the afternoon, it began to rain. Frey made camp in a small copse of willows that grew around a tributary that came down from Mirkwood. The trees kept her dry, but there would no longer be anymore tracks. If she kept going north, she’d end up in wild lands were the wolves and orcs roamed unchecked. Once, men had lived there, but they were few since the days of the Witch King and Scatha the Dragon. For as long as anybody now could remember, the orcs called these lands beneath the mountains theirs. There, they were bigger and more brutish than down south: orc-folk from Angmar and Gundabad. Some would easily be larger than Frey, and much more muscled. Although she wasn’t afraid of going north, she admitted she had no business there, and ‘trouble always comes to those who seek it’, as Beorn used to say. So she turned east the next day. When she had left Beorn’s House, she had had half a mind to go to the Grey Mountains, where she knew dragons lived. She was also intrigued by the stories of Dale and the Lonely Mountain. So she travelled towards the Forest. Where it came closer to the river, she knew there was a Forest Gate, an entrance into the woods and a sure path that would take her East.

After a few more days of camping she became more upbeat. After all, no orcs were following her, and her bumbling heroics had allowed a warrior to escape from orcs. She even had his horse to boot! Gawandja climbed the hills more easily than the horses of the Northmen would. His race was smaller and lighter than their cousins, but their hooves were bigger and their legs were stronger. Frey didn’t know much about horses, but she reckoned they were not native to these lands. She wondered whether they were bred by Elves. Perhaps the warrior she saved was an Elf. He or she was a proficient archer for sure, felling orcs with a single arrow. Frey also remembered their curved sabre. No-one she knew had curved swords, but she had heard that some Wood-elves carried them, as well as shortswords. They were shorter than the straight blades of the Northmen and the Beornings, such as Eormengils’ sword Hrimfang that she carried loosely slung on her hip. Those were the swords for the shield walls and for the mounted warriors. But sabres and shortswords would be more useful in the forest. Or perhaps seated on small, fast horses, like this one, where reach was less important than agility in the hands of an experienced warrior or hunter. She did not know whether Wood-elves had horses, or whether, if the stories were true, there were other elves beyond Wood-elves.

After crossing yet another ridge, she saw a smoke plume in the distance, to the east, between the Forest and her. Coming closer, she saw that the smoke did not come from one source, but a couple. A settlement, perhaps? They were small plumes, perhaps from fires or chimneys. She spurred her horse onwards, curious about what would be behind that eastern hill. Suddenly, however, a rider came in sight from over the edge. A short bow was on his lap, and a quiver thick with arrow-tails by his knee. Bronze plates that were sewn together as chest protection glittered brightly in the late sun from the west, all but blinding Freydis. The rider had no helmet, but wore a red felt cap. Long, braided tresses poured from underneath the cap, but Frey could not see his face. She turned her head, but left, right and behind her more riders appeared, trapping her in the valley. All carried short, powerful bows, strings taut and arrows notched, threatening Frey. Within a lightning moment, they could draw, aim and shoot.

Slowly, Frey raised her hands. “I come with no ill will,” she said with a clear voice, showing no fear even though she was nervous. “I come in peace.”

The warrior in front of her shouted something in a foreign language. It sounded unlike anything else Frey had heard before. She waited calmly, repeating her words. One of the other riders came closer, examining Frey and the horse. She saw that the rider was a young man, a boy of her age perhaps, beardless and with big black eyes. The young rider shouted something to the one with the shining bronze scales. The leader trotted closer to Frey, still holding the bow loosely at the ready.

“Who are you,” the rider said in Westron, with a low voice and a heavy accent. It was only then that Frey saw that the rider was actually a woman, older than her or the boy. A few strands of iron-grey hair stood out from her black braids, and underneath her lamellar armor the curve of her breasts clearly showed now. Even so, her hands were strong and scarred and she looked like an experienced warrior. Her black eyes pinned Frey uncomfortably in her saddle as she looked her over.

“I am Friduisa and I belong to the household of Beorn. I come with no ill will. I didn’t know people lived here.”

“And why are you here?” the rider went on sternly.

“I just passed. I’m on my way to cross the forest.”

“That horse does not belong to the Household of Beorn.” Frey heard bows creak and bowstrings being drawn. “...Thief.”

“I am no thief!” Frey exclaimed, more and more nervous. “I found this horse by the River, and...”

“That horse belongs to somebody already. What did you do to them?”

“I helped him!” Frey said with red cheeks. “He was attacked by orcs on the other side of the river. I helped him escape them.”

“ _Then_ you took his horse?” the woman said, with an eyebrow raised. “From the orcs? What happened to the second rider?”

“No! The horse had escaped from the orcs on its own. I don’t know if there was a second rider, but I only saw one. There was a second horse that was killed.”

“Convenient,” the woman sneered. “Orcs as only witness. That explains _everything_.”

Frey lost her temper and jumped – almost fell – out of the saddle. The warriors took aim and the young man drew his sabre, but the woman halted them with a simple gesture.

“Take the damned horse!" Frey shouted, crestfallen and indignated. "I was about to return it anyway. I searched for the warrior for days but I couldn’t find him. I know where they crossed.”

“Quiet. We’ll decide what to do with you later. Akhsartag, Súragaitha, cuff her hands and tie her to my horse."

The boy and another rider dismounted quickly and bound a woven rope around her wrists. They also took her sword and pack. Freydis saw that the other rider was a young woman. At least half of the riders were women, actually, which surprised her. They gave the rope to the leader, who tied it to her saddleknob. Leading her by the rope, they crossed the final ridge and went towards the plume of smoke.

*

The grey stalks of reed blew slowly in the invisible wind, the water rippling by almost inaudibly. The yellow moon and pale stars were the only light that night - but creatures of darkness see more clearly at night than at day. A goblin was moving furtively through the reed, spying around with his yellow eyes. He sniffed, here and there, left and right, as if he was picking up a trail among the watery undergrowth. Suddenly, he reached out with long fingers and plucked something from one of the grasses. He held it up in the grey light and sniffed it thoroughly. It looked like a long, broken swan feather.

"What is it, Snaga?" a harsh voice hissed from the bank. A bigger orc crawled up and looked down on the one among the reeds.

"It fell from the helmet of the man-girl."

"What do you smell?"

The goblins sniffed again, then grinned his sharp teeth bare.

"Bear-folk." To that, the other orc grimaced. "Far away from home..."

The orcs looked across the river towards the other bank.

"We have her scent. The master will be pleased. The pack is hungry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*] Gawandja means ‘Returner’ in the language of the Northmen of the Anduin.


	6. The Wainspeople

# The Wainspeople

_East bank of the Anduin  
Middle of Hróðimonth, T.A. 2946_

They crossed the final ridge and stood in sight of the encampment. Here there was a large, flat plain, sheltered from the wind and ripe with grass and brushwood. There was no settlement, but a mobile campsite. There were a handful round felt tents, and fires here and there. Colourful wooden wagons stood in the middle, warm lights were already shining through their windows and lanterns were lit at their doors. Flocks of sheep and some cattle sprawled around camp. There were a few more riders, and some scattered horses, but all in all the herd was small compared to those of Beorn or the Northmen of the Anduin. The shadows were lengthening now, and twilight was coming fast. The herdsmen and -women were guiding the livestock towards their pens.

“You are now our prisoner, until our leader decides what to do with you. Do not speak with anyone or we’ll gag you as well.”

They descended into the camp and the warrior woman lead Freydis to the middle. When she approached, men and women fell silent and hid in their tents and wagons. They were an odd folk, Freydis thought. She had never seen people like them near Beorn’s house or the Old Ford. These people had dark hair and eyes, unlike the Northmen. Some had slanted eyes, others had bright red hair and freckles. She saw no blond hair or exceptionally tall people. Some had a darker shade of skin colour, like hers. Children peeked beyond the tent flaps to stare at her stark blue eyes.

The camp site was meagre, and Frey saw few iron tools or valuable fabrics or metals. These people lived off the land and off the produce of their herd. She also spied some trade items. A reused barrel here and there, a stack of wicker baskets, a dark terracotta amphora. Some looms were abandoned, where woolen cloth was woven with motifs like the blanket she had found in the saddlebag.

They came onto a wagon that looked slightly taller and more colourfully painted than the others. A red lantern hung from a dragon-carved pole next to the door. In front, a handful of narrow idols, carved from wooden poles, had been staked into the ground. Some looked like slender human figures, others were zoomorphic: a regal griffon, an elegant deer, a horse... She also saw a colourful snake banner, a woven, hollow tube with streamers that hung from the neck of a wooden dragon’s head atop a tall pole. The warrior lady entered the wagon, leaving Frey with the others behind.

“Who is she?” Frey asked the young man and woman next to her. “And who is in that wagon?”

“Shut up,” the girl said sternly, but her command was not backed up with the forceful personality of the older woman.

“Oh, come on. I told you my name. I’m Friduisa. Frey.”

They remained silent for a moment, but then the boy answered. “I’m Akhsartag. This is my sister Súragaitha.” She hissed something in their language, to which the boy replied quickly.

“Thank you,” Frey said to him. “Who is _she_? Is she the big cheese around her?”

“No, she’s not. She’s Tigraxauda, one of our great warriors. There’s not a mark she can’t hit and not a horse she can’t ride.”

“You’re a warrior too?” Frey queried.

The youngster remained silent.

“Silence, now. She’s talking with our leader to decide what to do with you.”

“Weigh your words well, Frey, because they may be your last,” his sister said. Freydis pouted her lips and scowled. Tied and without weapon, there was little that she could do.

After a while in silence, Tigraxauda came back out of the wagon. The darkness was complete by then, but there were cosy lights throughout the camp. Crickets were heard and scattered noise of people. Frey swallowed when she saw the warrior woman’s immovable face. She took a step forward and propped up her chest and chin.

“I demand a fair fight with your mightiest champion, warrior! If I’m about to die I want to die with a sword in my hand!”

The woman clicked her tongue and rolled with her eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We won’t kill you yet.” She spoke a quick command in their fast, rhythmical language and the two grabbed her shoulders. The prisoner glanced at the painted wagon over her shoulder as they dragged her away. Someone was watching her behind the intricate curtains.

*

They brought her to the sheep pen where they bound her to a tree. Her ankles were cuffed with thick leather straps as well as her arms. She could sleep easily, and was even given a blanket. But her weapons and her gear were kept by the woman warrior. The tribe kept her there for a few days. At night she was kept warm by the sheep and the woolen blanket. During the day, she was alone in the empty pen. The pen was closely guarded, day and night, even though she made no attempts to get out. She suspected that the pen would be guarded whether she was there or not. It made sense to put her there, among their most valuable possession: the herd. The tribe also brought her food. Every time another woman or man brought her a bowl, and it appeared that the households each took a turn to share a portion with their prisoner. When it was Tigraxauda’s turn to bring her food, she squatted at a small distance and watched her eat in silence, much like a herd dog alertly watches a grazing flock. She never said anything, and ignored her when Frey asked questions. Freydis came to respect her. She was held in esteem by all the people of that folk, and perhaps even held the highest position of authority, safe the mysterious leader in the painted wagon. She was a powerful warrior no doubt, and everyone spoke highly of her riding skills, her skills with bow and arrow and her swordsmanship. Her restrained posture betrayed a well-trained warrior and her powerful physique underscored her experience. But Frey noticed more than that: she was also a woman of great strength of personality. By observing her behaviour she saw that Tigraxauda held the tribe together in a very unique way. She was stern, but fair, and on more than one occasion Frey was startled by how she handled trouble: through diplomacy, talk and equal-handedness. She never appeared to exercise force or coercion, but nonetheless everyone without exception was keen to follow her instruction. In this way she reminded her of Beorn: both had great prowess as warriors but allowed it to slumber underneath a soft-spoken, good-natured leadership. They were no warlords, ruling with a hard hand and harder justice. Perhaps it was the other way around, Frey mused. And their real hidden strength was their kind-hearted nature itself, while it was merely the outer shell that was rock-hard as seasoned warriors. Frey too felt naturally more respectful to that soft power, a pliancy she would never have felt if her captivity had been more oppressive.

When it was Akhsartag or Súragaitha who brought Frey food or guarded her, she got more talk. She asked them lots of questions and told much of her own background. They developed some kind of comradery, and the siblings proved to Frey, even more than Tigraxauda, that the tribe was not in the grasp of evil but fundamentally kind. From them she learned that the tribe was migratory, like the birds, and travelled to different pastures every few months, never staying long.

Their origin lay shrouded in history and far in the east, beyond the Mirkwood and the Running river. From Beorn’s house, Frey remembered the old stories of the Wainriders, cruel warriors that lived and fought in wagons and chariots, who had brought the old Kingdom of Rhovanion down. They ruled harshly over the Northmen, but were themselves vassals of the ancient Enemy of mankind. Their dominion came at an end when the deposed Kings of Rhovanion received help from the mighty Kingdom of Stoningland. The stories told how the Wainriders were scattered, and they never appeared anymore in the written histories of Gondor nor the stories of the Northmen. But of course, they didn’t just disappear, or neatly return to their lands. Many stayed behind, tolerated only because they did not settle any land but travelled like nomads. The descendants of those Wainriders continued to eke out an existence, increasingly pushed into more barren and inhospitable areas by the prospering Men of Wilderland. Such was the fate of the defeated people. With no homeland or ruler, they were mere scattered tribes, to weak to ever become a threat to the Free Peoples again. Not that they wanted, of course. They had become simple traveller people, nomads, herders and tradesmen. Elves and Dwarves avoided them, and the Northmen despised them because they also traded with the goblins of the Misty Mountains, and because they were ancient enemies. Among the human settlements of the Anduin, they were deeply mistrusted. The fell reputation of the once-mighty Wainriders became mere contempt. ‘ _Gypsies_ ,’ parents taught their children. They were the ‘lesser men’, not as tall or fair in skin and as the Northmen, or the noble races of the Men of Westernesse. Even so, the Wainriders trafficked on old trade routes, exchanging simple crafts like skins, carved wood and ivory, textile or horse ornaments for iron and other commodities they did not produce on their own. It was said that that folk was gifted in dark magic, but that was not confirmed by Akhsartag or Súragaitha.

They told her that the horse she had found in the river belonged to another warrior, a man called Targitaos. Along with another warrior, Takhmaspa, he had been scouting the river banks for a dependable ford to cross the river with the wagons and the flocks. Both of them were experienced warriors, equal in skill and prowess only to Tigraxauda. Even so, they had gone missing for days. That was why the tribe was so nervous, with two of their protectors gone. After they captured Frey, Tigraxauda and the leader in the wagon had sent two more riders to the river banks, to where Frey had indicated. They found traces of the fight, but no bodies. There had been orcs indeed, but still they didn’t believe Freydis’ story. Perhaps she was in league with the fell creatures, they thought, or she had stolen a horse and was somehow instrumental for the disappearance of their two men. Perhaps her petty horse-theft had delivered the warriors to the goblins. Quite simply put, it was Frey’s word against Tigraxauda’s. The siblings would not answer why the tribe was so small, or why they had only three warriors, and they remained quiet about many things in their past, exchanging only dark looks.

*

During the days she talked to the tribespeople or she observed their doings. But alone in the sheep pen at night, Frey felt forlorn. Surrounded by fluffy, sleeping creatures though she was, she couldn't help but feeling lonely. She kept overthinking her journey and her capture. A greater warrior than her would never have let herself be captured like that. Not that she should have fought with ten or more riders - not even Beorn would be able to fight his way out if he was encircled and threatened with arrows like that. But any real warrior worth her salt would have avoided that situation. She had been careless in unknown territory. In fact, she had been careless since the day she left Beorn's House. She escaped the orcs through sheer chance - a very unlikely pileup of chance, in fact. Only to be caught like a rabbit in a trap. They might have been watching her the entire day.

She felt miserable. Her wrists and ankles had been chafed by the straps. A tree root stuck in her back and she was cold. It smelt like it was going to rain. There were guards, but they were too far away and they wouldn't speak to her at night. She didn't feel half the hero that she wanted to be. Staying with Beorn and training a few years with Eormengils more suddenly did not feel like such a bad idea anymore. She was sure that if she insisted well enough, she would push over even the staunchest housecarls and start training with the men. It would be easier for her. Now she was free... but yeah... a prisoner. She had little more than her quick mouth right now. 

Her thoughts ran to escape, but that was almost hopeless. Even if she got rid of the straps and got out of the sheep pen unseen; the warrior woman Tigraxauda would easily track her down with her riders. She would be helpless in the wilds without equipment and they were in their own terrain. No - it seemed that she would be here until Tigraxauda and the Leader decided otherwise. But it could be worse. Frey didn't like to admit it, but she was learning a lot here. Things that she couldn't learn among the Beornings. Watching and listening was one thing. Looking at Tigraxauda another. 

She felt different with her than with the others. The others could be her friends if she wasn't their prisoner. A certain comradery was already developing. They were around the same age and although their lives were different, they had many of the same experiences. They were as curious about her world as she about theirs. But the warrior was different. She was seriously engaged to the security of the clan, clearly minding a lot and juggling with many troubles and challenges simultaneously. She was easily the most serious person in the camp, smiling seldom. Frey knew her reputation as a dutiful protector of the tribe and a skilled warrior, of course. When she saw her, she saw all these things on one glance. Her posture, body, her features and her curt way of speaking said all of that. Frey felt that her benevolence was the one thing that made the Wainspeople treat their prisoner with respect. 

She was afraid of her. Everybody in their sane mind would be. Her stern eyes had seen many fights and her posture spoke of an unbreakable will. Frey reckoned that Tigraxauda's fury would be nothing short of Beorn's berserk rage if it were to be roused. The strength of her hands commanded respect and the vigour of her gait was evident to all. On her brow there was sorrow, but also wisdom and care. More than only servants of evil would fear her if she turned against them. But intuitively, Frey also fell attracted to the woman. She was not impervious to the older woman's confident charm, perhaps even less than most. Her black-and-silver hair, her stern cheekbones, her soft gravity, her protectiveness that quite did not include Frey...

All of this made Frey yearn for more belonging. She wanted to impress the tribe, and Tigraxauda especially. She wanted her to raise her eyebrows in surprise, her smile, her nod of approval. Perhaps then she would learn more about what it is to be a real warrior and what it means to be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The history of the [Wainriders](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Wainriders) and their war with the Northmen and with Gondor appears in detail in _Unfinished Tales_ , part II: _Cirion and Eorl_. Not much can be gleamed about their culture from these annals, which were written by the victors and were more concerned about the kinship between the Northmen and the Men of Gondor. After their defeat they never appeared back in the histories, and one is left to assume they crept back East with their tails between their legs (after having lived over a century in Wilderland). They are generally protrayed as evil and primitive. No doubt this was the way that Sauron liked his vassals and the way that Gondor liked to portray her enemies. It is said that they lived in wagons, even riding war-chariots into battle, and that their women were fierce and trained warriors as well.
> 
> What happened to this mysterious people after Sauron's power over them was broken? A hardy, nomadic people, they could easily slink back into the shadows of the histories, leaving barely a trace. But that is still not the same as disappearing entirely...


	7. Zixaïs

# Zixaïs

All of this changed when one day, two or three sheep wandered off and went missing in the mountains up north. The heaths were more dangerous there, and usually the flocks and shepherds avoided going too far north. Herders had gone to look after the lost sheep, but they too had not returned home. By nightfall the camp was in disarray. Wolves were heard howling in the hills nearby, not far from the valley where the tribe stayed. The rest of the flock, nervous by the howls, somehow broke out of the pen and scattered in the plain. Many of the horses escaped as well, and frantic tribesmen were running and calling for the horses and trying to catch the sheep. In the chaos, Frey managed to untie the knots and escape the pen, and ran towards the hill. She halted a horse and clambered on it. However, instead of escaping, she helped the tribespeople gather the flock and guide the cattle and horses to safety. Tigraxauda met her in the middle of the night and saw what she was doing. Together with a few other riders, they went after the last sheep and into the northern hills. There, they found the herders, chased by wolves. With torches and bows they routed the wolves and brought the wounded herders to safety.

The next morning, the tribe broke up camp. They would travel to another spot a day or two to the south, where they would be safe from the wolves and where the sheep would be less nervous. The tents were broken up with surprising speed and the wagons were connected to the yokes of the oxen. Horses were rigged with bundles and baskets. Tigraxauda came to Frey and thanked her for her help. She would no longer be tied in the pen and she would be allowed to walk freely among the tribe. But she still didn’t wholly believe Frey's story, and she stressed that she remained their prisoner. After all, all of her possessions were kept by the warrior woman. Without Eormengils' sword, Hrimfang, there was no thinking that she leave.

“So who is your mysterious leader? Who lives in that wagon?” Freydis asked, as she walked alongside Tigraxauda’s horse, at the caravan’s tail. The colourful car hobbled in the middle of the troupe, in file with the other wagons and packed animals in front of them. The woman hesitated, taxing Frey with her black eyes.

“Our princess, Zixaïs.”

“Princess?” Frey raised an eyebrow. “You’re led by a princess?” She was genuinely surprised, but somehow it came over as dismissive.

“Better than an old man,” Tigraxauda bit back, “who changes into a wild beast.”

“Beorn is not old- he’s only... Well, I see what you mean. But I meant no insult. I just thought it was odd that a princess is your shadowy ruler. Why is she not a Queen?”

“She is too young to be a queen. She’ll be queen when she marries, perhaps.”

“Sooo... how old is she exactly, Tigra? I mean, come on. She’s not a child anymore because you go to her for decisions. But she's not married. She's around my age, right?” Frey said, beaming brightly.

The warrior woman looked at her, ignoring her question. There was something of irony in her eyes. Then she sighed and looked in front towards the caravan.

"You called me Tigra. My name is Tigraxauda."

“Oh, sorry. No offence. For me, that's a... special name. And the Princess is called Zixaïs. That's special too. Pretty. When do I get to meet her? ” Frey continued. “I bet she’s cute. She has black hair too?”

Tigraxauda smiled guardedly, half derisive, half protective.

“Remember you’re still our prisoner, Freydis. Don’t test our hospitality. You’ve done us a favour, but you’re not one of us. Our lady might take offense with your disrespect. Or I might.” She clicked her tongue and her horse leapt forward into a brisk canter.

*

A new campsite was chosen closer to the River. The wagons were arrayed in a particular pattern and tents were raised. It was good grazing ground for the cattle and by now, the fields were blooming and many trees carried fresh leaves. Walking around and helping out, Frey noticed many other things about the tribe she had not yet seen before. That night, an old woman who did not speak Westron invited her in a tent where a certain performance was held. On one side, there was a sort of dais with a wide window. Children and adults sat on the floor, and Frey was nudged to sit among them. Akhsartag was there too, and he waved her over. All lamps were extinguished except for the ones near the window. A flute , a cithar and a kind of fiddle played an introductory tune. To Frey’s surprise, puppets appeared in the window, manipulated by actors above and below the window. Narrators and actors talked and played out roles, reenacting old stories and legends. The children laughed and regaled, and sometimes the adults laughed too at jokes Frey did not understand. Akhsartag translated parts, but even with his good will, he couldn’t make her understand the stories. This gave her the opportunity to observe the action itself. The actors also played with shadows of grotesque shapes. Sometimes, parts of songs were sung. At every interlude, someone or another changed and went back to sit, while another took his place to play another story. Even though she didn’t understand, Frey saw that some were better than others, more ingenious or skillful, but everybody that wanted could join. The performance was by no means played out by the actors alone either. There was a lot of talking and asking between the narrators and the audience. Children were nudged to talk to the characters and take part in the stories. Some of the puppets kept returning: recurring villains or heroes, trickster gods and magical blacksmiths, elves and dwarves and trolls, and even dragons and griffins. Even Freydis soon got to know them. These people kept their legends alive not in the form of songs, like hers, but in this odd puppet show. She was fascinated by the performance, and tried to understand as much as she could from Akhsartag’s brief translations and confusing names while the action played out.

At one point, someone said something funny in a story and everyone laughed, looking at Frey. Caught off guard, she sat up. "That's you," Akhsartag said, pointing at the puppetry. An evil-looking puppet with blue eyes had come into the scene, and something was played out. It looked like the blue-eyed pupped tried to steal horses but it was chased. The puppet disappeared and a sheep took its place. People laughed and children cheered. A whole bunch of sheep appeared, flocking around it. Suddenly, a bear jumped up from the woolly flock, growling and chasing the sheep away. The bear tried to steal a horse again and was chased, but it changed back into a sheep, attracting the other sheep again. It changed back into the blue-eyed character as people laughed and shrill tunes were played. Frey looked at Akhsartag, indignantly. He merely shrugged with a smile.

"I didn't steal sheep!" she called out around her. "Come on! That's hardly fair. That's not me!" But the next stories didn't involve her and she was hardly the only one that was made fun of.

Then someone requested a particular story, and everybody fell silent as the window emptied. People shuffled their pillows and huddled deeper into their blankets, and a few more flickering candles in front were extinguished. A tangible melancholy fell over the audience, an old, half-healed aching that knitted everybody together. Freydis looked over her shoulder, to see who had asked for the story, when Akhsartag touched her arm and said: “It is the story of our tribe, now.” Behind them, entirely in the back of the tent, she caught a fleeting look of a small figure, swathed in dark robes. Her face was veiled with a shawl and with elaborate beads and silver jewelry, something which nobody else wore in the tent. The jewels hung from her temples and forehead, and her face was obscured, except an upturned nose which caught the faint light from the dais. Tigraxauda's silhouette loomed next to the figure, arms crossed, and the shimmers in her eyes were enough for Frey to know that she was watching her. She turned her head back. “Watch,” Akhsartag said, pulling her sleeve. “It’s the Royal Story.” And for the next moments, Frey’s eyes were glued back to the story as it unfolded, trying to make sense of the tribe’s secret past. At times, she tried to portray the face of the princess in her mind, wondering if she came into the story at all.

When the story was over, Tigraxauda escorted the swathed figure back out, and Frey only caught a glimpse of her. No doubt she was the princess.

“Where are you going?” Akhsartag said, as Frey stood up and turned to the door.

“I won’t take long.”

She got out and looked for the robed person and her intimidating bodyguard. She paced through the empty, quiet camp until she came at the painted wagon with the dragon banner. The lantern was lit and the door stood open. On the threshold, half concealed by shadow, stood the robed princess. Only her embroidered sleeve and her hand were lit by the dim light of the lantern. Dark red dots and black lines formed an intricate pattern on her young, narrow hand. She was alone. It appeared as if she was waiting for Frey. She watched her from the threshold. Amazed by her calm mystery, Frey’s otherwise quick mouth failed for words. Only the wind was heard swishing overhead, tangling playfully with the banner and the lantern.

“You are the Prisoner?” the princess finally broke the silence. She spoke Westron, but with the same accent as the others. It appeared to Frey that she was nearly as curious about her as she about the princess. Frey's eyes tried to pierce the shadows of the threshold. Apart from her hand, little could be gleamed from beyond the veils and robes.

“Yes – I am Beorn of the Folk of Frey,” Frey said absentmindedly. She heard the princess snicker.

“Beorn? A well-known name, for sure...”

“No, I mean... Frey, my name is Frey. And you?”

Suddenly, a hand grabbed Frey's shoulder and turned her around.

“What did I tell you?!” Tigraxauda boomed at Frey. Her stern black eyes bored into Frey, making her feel like a guilty child with sticky hands and honey-cake crumbs on her mouth. She heard the princess giggle mischievously and close the door.

“You said I was free to go where I wanted, as long as I stayed in the camp!” Freydis proudly answered. She challenged Tigraxauda's gaze for an instant, but looked away. 

“Why are you such troublemaker?” Tigraxauda sighed. “Follow me.”

*

They were silent as they paced through the camp. Tigraxauda's firm hand had not left Frey's shoulder.

"Where are you bringing me?"

"To your sleeping place." Her voice was no longer stern or disappointed but level. "You'll sleep with me, so I can keep an eye on you."

“Ah, good. So I’m not staying with the sheep anymore.” Frey mumbled defiantly. They came in front of a sturdy wagon. 

“This here is the warrior’s wagon. Only my bed is used right now, and there’s two free beds, so...” Tigraxauda said, releasing Frey and facing her. “So I dragged a mattress out and prepared your bed underneath.”

“I have to sleep _underneath_ the wagon?” Frey said, pouting.

“Yes. It’s dry and the blankets and mattress will keep you warm enough. You'll stay put until sunrise. You are not to leave or go near that wagon again.” She ducked inside the wagon door and pulled out a pillow. She chucked it at Frey, who caught it. “Goodnight,” she said firmly, and closed the door behind her. Frey repeated her, sarcastically mimicking her accent. She sighed and crawled underneath the wagon. In fact, it was not a bad shelter, better than what she had had in the wilderness. She kicked off her trotters and rolled into the blankets. They faintly smelled of Tigraxauda, and somehow that was comforting for Frey. 


	8. Heartfelt

# Heartfelt

The next day, Tigraxauda saw to it that Frey had things to do rather than wander around the camp freely. In the morning, she took her to a cleared place near the sheep pens where some people were working, mainly women. They were of different ages, some were just children, others were mothers and even the camp’s grandmothers were there. The sheep were being shorn and they were processing the bales of wool.

“You want me to work with the women?” Frey said, looking with disapproval to the women who were working with distaff and spindle. Throughout Middle Earth, spinning was a woman’s job. Women wove while men fought and collected glory and fame. It was exactly what she had run away from in Beorn’s place.

Tigraxauda scoffed at her disdain. “It wouldn’t hurt you to do as you’re told for once... And learn your place here,” she said, “But that’s not what you’re here for. The old women tell there’s bad weather coming, and we’ll need to work away these bales of wool.”

Frey pouted and crossed her arms. She looked at the repetitive spinning and rubbing fingers of the old ladies and looked at their quiet chatter. Patient, slow and profoundly unheroic.

“Don’t worry. We have spinsters enough for the moment. You don’t have spinning fingers anyway, and we’d rather have well-made thread... I’d like,” Tigraxauda said, “that you helped out with the feltmaking.” She turned her eyes to Frey, who looked at her questioningly.

“Felt?” They didn’t make felt at Beorn’s house or almost anywhere in the Northman lands. It was a fabric almost unknown there. “It’s hard work. Man’s work.” Tigraxauda looked over Frey’s muscled arms and her posture, sharing a rare, weathered smile. “I think you’ll manage perfectly.”

*

The next couple of days, Frey set to work at the wool clearing while Tigraxauda was occupied with her riders. She moved the baskets of wool and tightly packed bales. They were heavy, because there were a lot of sheep that had been shorn and the bales had to be manageable in size to fit in the wagons. She also learned the felt-making secrets. It was a textile she hadn’t seen before, but was very common among the Wainspeople. Most of them had one or more pieces of clothing made from the coarse, threadless fabric. At first it was stiff, but it gradually softened, but she had already noticed that it wore very beautifully and held shape well. The tents that were common in the camp as well were made from thick, waterproof felt. Sometimes it was embroidered or quilted during the winter. The best quality fleece would be traded off to whom the Wainspeople had ties with. Frey had heard that it was more popular on the other side of the Woods and in realms of the east and south. It went a fair price in Dale, and Lake Town was known to be a hub for fine and embroidered felt.

Frey brought water from the nearby stream and heated it. She helped with arranging the shorn wool on a blanket and wetting it. The Wainspeople would roll up the blanket tightly around a heavy wooden pole, and then they would manually compress the wool around it, using pressure and friction on the hot and wet wool to create the dense felt. Sweat ran down Frey’s back as she rolled the pole back and forth with her arms. Tigraxauda had been right, and felt-making certainly wasn’t a job for grannies. She also created smaller pieces of felt by rubbing a stone or a stick against the fleece. The faster and harder she ground, the better quality it was. She loved it. It was a simple exchange of strength and speed into quality, like a simple running or sparring match. The more she put into it, the better the result. There was no special skill needed.

She also learned that the yarn the spinsters made was thin but strong, much finer in quality than the thread that was made by Beorn’s girls. Here it was spun by the old ladies and the eldest ones made the best thread. It was the most regular in thickness and their thread ran endless. They cut the thread only once, after the sun had gone down, and there was a day’s worth of thick spool next to them. The children and other ladies helped with carrying the baskets of wool and the spools, but the grannies did the spinning. Their whorls twirled on the stamped earth between their embroidered loafers as they chattered with each other in that language that Frey couldn’t understand. Clearly, nobody had even thought of involving her. The youngest pupils among them were much older than Frey and perhaps even Tigraxauda. Frey was secretly impressed. She came from a world were everything was taught at a young age, and where youth itself was invaluable. Few things in Beorn’s hall were thought to get better with old age. Beorn ran a House where mostly young people lived; warriors, heroes in the making, housecarls. Beorn and his captains were the eldest among them. As Beorn had been their founder, there was no generation before them, so old people were seldom seen in that house. Old people did not make good warriors, they said, especially not old women. As age increased, the strength of the sword arm and the resolve of the mind dwindled. The younger, the better, more courageous and impetuous a warrior was. But here there were trades that could only be learned at old age, and perfected only the older one got.

It was similar with the storytelling. In Beorn’s hall, the stories were told only by travelling bards, or by the one in the hall who possessed the best memory and minstrelsy, like Eormengils. Only their skill and the constriction of the verses preserved the truth of ancient times and past generations. Wainspeople lore was shared and passed on by everyone. Their truth was safeguarded by the collective itself. A child could tell a story one day, and a herder could tell the same story another day, and then again a grandmother would tell her version of it. And all of these stories would be different, and still they would all be true. There was no single canonical story, but everybody knew the story that was at the heart. The characters and puppets remained the same, but the stories and details varied. And so the entire group preserved their legends and their past. Perhaps it was because they were travelling people, taking after their wandering flocks. In the same way, they herded the wandering flocks of stories and characters. 

Sometimes, Tigraxauda came to check on Frey during the evenings. She promised her that if she behaved and did her work well, she could do other things soon, perhaps even spar with the others. Frey thought this was a favour or a show of leniency, but Tigraxauda added that she was not at all allowed to leave the camp or mount a horse. She was still their prisoner. Her eyes had the severity of a commander who just returned from drilling her troops and Frey didn’t argue. Tigraxauda made her promise these things and bind Frey with her word. That was something both of them took as seriously as being bound by rope or chain.

“You know,” Tigraxauda said one day as they walked through the wagons. Frey had told her that feltmaking wasn’t done at Beorn’s house, and that it was the women who wove and the men who fought. She told her that this was why she had run away: she had a hero’s soul and a warrior’s arm, but in Beorn’s house all she could do was bake honey-cakes and weave.

“The first time I saw you, I thought you were a man,” she said. “I saw you were a warrior. Not from the way you sat on a horse though,” she added with an upturned mouth corner. “That merely told me you were an outsider.”

“You thought I was a man?” Frey smirked, vividly remembering how long it had taken for her to realize that Tigraxauda too was a woman.

“Yes.” Tigraxauda replied, looking her over from head to toes. It was something Frey had seen her do a couple of times, but she didn’t know why. “You get that a lot?”

“Actually, yes,” Frey said, blinking. “How do you know that?”

“I just do,” the woman said. It was clear as daylight to everyone that Freydis had a man’s haircut, wore men’s clothing, talked like a man. She still retained a lot of female characteristics too, like the way she tilted her chin or the way she walked sometimes. But there was no doubt about her androgyny. She would be called boyish if she were a girl and girlish if she were a boy.

“Well, you got the warrior part right!” Frey said, flexing her muscles and squinting dangerously. “I’m one of Beorn’s best fighters, despite my age. And I’m courageous, and I have more endurance than most. But they don’t realize that at home. I ran away because I’m going to prove myself. I’ll return as a hero! Songs of my deeds will precede me!”

It was the first time Frey saw Tigraxauda really laughing instead of her ironic smirk. Frey felt a mixture of hurt pride and delight because of her laugh.

“What? You’re not impressed?”

“No. You don’t need to impress me. I’m not interested in such antics of youngsters – or young women, in your case. But you make me laugh. You have spirit, short-hair. You bring some life in the camp. I think you’ll do just fine with us.”


	9. Not the Strangest Visitor

# Not the Strangest Visitor

There was not a day that went past that Frey did not fall exhausted underneath Tigraxauda’s wagon. She ate with one of the families she worked with, making new friends, or went with Súragaitha or her brother Akhsartag. The work was heavy but good for her arms and her condition. Sitting for days in a sheep pen was something that she might have enjoyed as a child, but not as a warrior woman. She wanted to keep fit and hale, and hard manual labour did her well. That much was Tigraxauda’s insight: by giving the prisoner a way to channel her energy, she became much more manageable. And it benefited the tribe – they could use an extra hand in this season, especially a strong extra hand. It reminded her to the days where she went out with the younglings of the Beornings, to cut and pleat the hedges of the homesteads near the hall, or clear away reed or dig fields and irrigation in Hróðimonth to prepare for the sowing.

She fell asleep quickly underneath the wagon's axles: a quiet, easy sleep earned by a hard worker. Obeying Tigraxauda’s prohibition to leave the wagon at night was easy, as she slept in one piece until woken by her in the early morning, when the rays of the sun were low. However, she remained curious about the princess’ wagon, and whenever she could, she tried to stray near it or walk past it on an errant, seeing if she could steal another glance. But she hardly ever could. The wagon windows and curtains remained impenetrable by her peeks.

One night, she dreamed that she was flying over the gables of the Wainspeople tents and wagons. It was one of those dreams in which she was lucid, looking through the eyes of a bird. She soared through the night sky. This time, she was not her usual shape: she was a smaller bird, a crow or a blackbird. The white flashes on her wings suggested a magpie. Tonight, she had no stomach for long journeys over the countryside, so she fluttered down instead.

It was the dead of night. Almost all the lanterns and the fires in the camp were extinguished. The wagon of the princess was shrouded in a hoary darkness. Frey landed on the roof. Nothing could be heard, nobody could be seen. She knew that a few wagons further, there would be the warrior wagon, underneath which she was sleeping. But she didn’t go that way. She fluttered down onto the windowsill.

One of the shutters was open. Nothing could be heard inside. A veil obscured her view. Freydis, the magpie, didn’t have to think long. Surely, a curious magpie was not the strangest visitor. But she would not be noticed, because the princess would be asleep inside.

She pecked the shutter, it slowly swung open. The peck was loud enough to draw attention if anyone inside was still awake. She waited for a moment, but nothing stirred. Curiously, she hopped inside, past the curtain.

It was dark, of course, but as Freydis had noticed before, many birds of different kinds have excellent vision, even at night. The astute magpie was no exception. She hopped further. The car was less spacious than it had looked inside, but more cosy, even at night when everything was dark. It was full of shapes of furniture that Frey could not recognize, and full of things that she had never seen. Tools or decoration of all sizes and shapes were standing everywhere, hanging overhead, each as mysterious as the clinking head-jewels of the princess.

A small brazier stood near the end of the wagon. The last of the coals gleamed dimly, casting an orange light on a painted alcove. The curtains of the alcove were thrown back, and as Frey hopped closer, she noticed that the blankets and furs in the bed had been slung aside. The magpie jumped onto the edge of the alcove, peeking into the bed. Nobody was there anymore. She jumped in, rubbing her head against the blankets. They were still warm, with a faint smell of someone that Frey did not know. Someone who smelt faintly of black ink, charcoal and patchouli.

Frey hopped out of the bed. Only now did she notice that the door was not entirely closed. She flew out of the wagon. Outside, everything was still. Nothing was awake as she flew through the camp. She hopped towards the wagon that her body was asleep, but suddenly noticed something. Something – or someone – was sitting a little bit way from the wagon, watching it. A black silhouette in the grass, a rock or bundle that certainly wasn’t there before.

Freydis hopped closer, as quiet as she could. The figure was clearly a person, huddled in a dark cloak and hood. Stooped in the grass, looking intently at the wagon. A corner of a garment’s hem stuck out from underneath the cloak: thickly embroidered with Wainspeople motifs. Not ten yards away she could see her own silhouette, bundled up in a bedroll. She could see her face, eyes closed and breathing peacefully.

The figure looked on intently, arms slung around her legs. Frey could not notice much from her face, but she saw the upturned nose of the princess sticking out from the deep shadows of the hood. Her chin was resting on her knees. Now and then, there was a strange, mischievous smile on her lips, but Frey could not see her eyes.

They kept like that for moments: the swathed figure looking at the sleeping Frey, the magpie stealthily trying to see the figure’s face.

Suddenly, the sleeping Frey stirred in a dream. With her eyes still closed, she frowned for a moment, then let out a small chuckle and turned over. Then she fell still again. The cloaked figure shuffled and craned out her neck. Then, she went towards the wagon, crawling like a black animal, a bear cub or a badger. Frey, alarmed, saw her painted hands in the grey grass.

She made a few hops and a winged leap. The figure kept coming closer to the sleeping Frey. She reached the wagon and her hands touched the blankets. Frey could hear her breath shiver, felt the look of her eyes on her sleeping neck. A painted hand reached out.

Frey squawked in distress, a shrill call that ripped through the night’s silence. Then, everything went black. She heard a gasp and felt a startled breath on her face. She opened her eyes, but the blackness was disorienting, and she didn’t know where she was. She quickly sat up, trying to look for the princess. Her hand reached out to where she had seen the painted hand as a magpie, but she felt only grass. She look out from underneath her shelter, her eyes accustoming to the starlight. Nothing could be seen. No cloaked figure. No magpie. But a faint scent of patchouli and charcoal lingered in the air.


	10. Bad Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: explicit sexual content!**
> 
> Other warnings: F/F, rough sex, some mild kinks. Fair warning for a potential underage character as well (over 16 y/o)
> 
> Fluff in the beginning and at the end.

# Bad Girl

So Frey stayed with the tribe, and although she wasn’t allowed to leave the circle of tents, she was given more freedom. She was good-natured and the people were friendly, so she had plenty of opportunities to help out doing small chores. Apart from the felt-making, she helped churn the kumiss, knead bread, groom the horses, carry heavy bales or baskets, weave baskets, and of course, fight. She sparred with most of the young tribespeople her age. She was athletic and brawny, but to her surprise, most of the boys and girls could floor her easily. With spear and wooden swords, however, she kicked their asses, even teaching Akhsartag, Súragaitha and their friends a thing or two. She tried archery but, amazed at the strength required to merely draw a nomad bow, she missed the mark by many yards. At Beorn’s house, like in most Northmen militias, archery was hardly practised. The sword and spear were their preferred weapons.

Spring is not without its storms or showers, however. The old spinning ladies had predicted bad weather. After a few weeks in the new camp, Frey saw dark clouds gathering in the afternoon. Glum with the prospect of sleeping underneath a wagon in the damp grass, she turned to her friends.

“Akhsartag, can I stay with you tonight? It’s going to rain.” He watched her over with his big black eyes. “I’m sorry, Frey. My mum doesn’t like it when... prisoners sleep over. Sorry,” he said painfully. Frey blinked. Wherever she asked, she got the same answer. Something became quite clear to her. That evening, she sat amidst her blankets as the rain started pouring down from the leaden skies. There was nothing to do in the camp and everybody was well and dry within their wagon or tent. She scowled, knees pulled up to her chin. Soon, water would start running through the grass underneath the wagon, invading her rectangle of dry grass. She kept pondering, but she was too proud. Eventually however, humbled by the rain, she conquered her hesitation and clambered from underneath the wagon. She climbed the stairs to the door and was about to knock, when she checked her hand. No, she thought. I can’t knock. So embarrassing. I don’t need her help. She lowered her arm.

At that instant, the door swung open and Tigraxauda appeared, equally startled to run into Frey.

“Frey?” she said.

“I was going to...” she said snootily.

“I was coming to get you. Quickly, get inside.” The women jumped past Frey to take the bundle of blankets and pillows. Frey stepped into the wagon, drawing a thick felt curtain aside. Even though she had lived near – and under – these vehicles for weeks now, she had never been really inside one. There was a small ceramic brazier with a chimney. A tiny fire burned inside, enough to amply heat the room. There were small cupboards and shelves all the way up against the ceiling, and bundles of herbs and dried food dangled in front of them. Baskets stood on the worn carpets and reed blinders were drawn over the window openings. Two alcoves with beds were built in the back wall of the wagon, one above the other. Pillows and blankets poured from the bottom one. There was a small weapon’s rack as well where some weapons and garments were carelessly slung over. A stained pot stood on the fire next to a pile of crusted bowls. All in all it looked much more untidy than she had thought it would. This was the home of a messy workaholic, not the stern housekeeper Frey had thought. Tigraxauda climbed into the wagon and pushed Frey beyond the curtain, closing the door behind them. A feeling of homeliness she hadn’t felt since she left Beorn’s house enveloped Frey.

“I’ll get you something to eat,” the proprietor said. She looked tall, standing in the wagon. Frey too had to stoop to remain clear of the baskets and herbs hanging overhead. The ceiling was lower than in the wagon of the princess, or perhaps she hadn’t noticed as a magpie. She saw her sword, Hrimfang, hung from the ceiling between the baskets. Tigraxauda still wore her armor, and Frey had to take a step back to let her pass. Their bodies brushed against each other. Both of their hair was wet.

Tigraxauda took a cloth and took the kettle from the fire, pouring water in a more or less clean bowl. She added some of the yellow, grainy stuff Frey found in the saddlebags. She carelessly added some spices, nuts and dried fruit and stirred. “What’s that?!” Frey said, peeking into the bowl as it was steeping.

“Nomad food.”

“I thought it was for horses.”

“Not for horses. It’s for riders who have little time. You can also make it cold, so you don’t have to make a fire in the wilderness.”

“Cold... food...?” Freydis repeated incredibly.

“Here, have you tried this?” Tigraxauda passed her a lidded bowl. There was a white, pasty substance in it, smelling awful.

“Yuck, what’s that?”

“Yoghurt.”

“What? Yuck hurt!?”

“Suit yourself.” Tigraxauda said, spooning some in a bowl. She added some of the hot dish. She found another bowl and filled it with the remainder. They ate in silence, the older woman watching Frey intently.

“You know, you remind me of myself when I was younger.”

It was something Frey had heard over and over when she was at Beorn’s house. All old people recognize something in all young people. But somehow, this woman had more right to say it than most others. There was much that Frey recognized in her. She was a warrior lady too, strong, boisterous, curious, honest... But she was less impulsive and more mistrustful than Frey. And perhaps she was more charismatic than Frey too, who was still rough around the edges and felt a bit childish. They looked at each other.

“Help me with my armour,” Tigraxauda said flatly, turning around on her stool. She was not used to being disobeyed. Frey scraped her stool closer and started undoing the lace at the back of the armament. It was more complex than it looked at first glance. To make the garment fit well over the chest and to offer maximum protection, it had to be tied very tightly.

“How _do_ you get this off when there’s no prisoner around?” Frey muttered, rolling her eyes.

“One of the other girls helps me. Or I do it myself. Sometimes I just sleep with it.” The top part came loose and Tigraxauda sighed, relieved. She unlaced it, flexed her shoulders and massaged her breasts, sighing. Frey swallowed. She felt the woman’s hard muscles roll underneath her clothes, and saw her squeeze her breasts. This woman was much brawnier than she thought, easily outclassing Frey’s own athletic body. Even so, the armor clearly strained the woman’s... softer parts. She finished the last lace and Tigraxauda pulled the armor aside. She stood up and hung it from the weapon’s rack. Underneath, she wore a teal felt caftan, a buttonless robe which reached from her knees and wrists to her neck. In front, the right part was swung over the left, held together on Tigraxauda’s form only by a woolen sash. The textile was well worn and supple around the folds. The robe was slightly loose now, though, and deepened her neckline. Frey pretended not to notice and looked at the chest protection instead. It was an odd piece. The scales that composed it weren’t metal, as she first thought. They were polished and shone with a dim reflection. “What material is this? It’s not so heavy.”

“Split horse hooves.” Tigraxauda said matter-of-factly. “When a horse dies, we collect the hooves, split them into slivers and bore holes for the lace. Its light-weight and as strong as the iron chain link armour of your people.” Amazed, Freydis reached out and touched the lamellas. “You really re-use everything...” she said. “Of course,” Tigraxauda answered. “Horses are the gift of our ancestors. What an insult it would be to let them go to waste after they die.” She sat back in a chair in front of the fire. “Come here, short-hair,” she said kindly, but firmly. Frey walked over, speechless for a moment. The woman looked at her confidently, her black eyes alight. Her sash was loose, and her caftan fell open. Frey could see her chest heave gently, her big, soft breasts. Her skin was tattooed, curling black dragon motifs and eye motifs inherited from ancestors. She pulled the younger woman on her lap.

“You’re a good girl, Frey,” Tigraxauda whispered, pulling Frey close. She placed her nose in Frey’s wet hair and smelled deeply. “Sometimes you misbehave, but now you’re going to be a good girl. You know there's a price of sleeping in my wagon, right?”

Lust gathered in Frey’s chest and hips. She hadn’t been spoken to like that for a long time. Tigraxauda smiled and bit her ear. Frey tore herself loose from the embrace and planted her hands on Tigraxauda’s shoulder.

“You want me to pay a price?” she muttered, her eye-lids half-closed, already falling under the spell of lust.

“I want you,” the nomad woman replied, "to pleasure me." She grabbed Frey’s shirt by the neckline and pulled her face to face. Frey looked deeply in her smoky eyes. “You want me?” Frey repeated with a hoarse whisper. Their lips were only a hair’s breath away from each other. “I’m your prisoner already.”  
“Good. I am very demanding.” Tigraxauda pulled her closer and they kissed. It was a long kiss, wild like a fight and a bit sloppy.

"Me too," Frey panted.

“Hmmm...” Tigraxauda sighed, biting her lip. “You’re a young and impetuous filly. But I’ll tame you. I know girls like you. I’ve tamed plenty.” She looked the girl on her lap over. Frey’s hands impatiently slid from her shoulders to her large breasts, clutching them eagerly with two hands, squeezing. She moaned. Frey shuffled on her lap, raising a leg to sit astride of her. She kept massaging her breasts, looking down on them in devotion and jealousy.

“You like that, don’t you? You like being on top,” Tigraxauda whispered slyly. “Let’s see what you have.” With a jerk she pulled up Frey’s shirt, revealing her toned abs and small breasts. The nomad woman’s strong hands stroked her body up and down, trailing every dimple and every bulge with her fingertips. Her prisoner breathed heavily, chest swelling and contracting. “Tough girl... but still such soft skin.” She grabbed her breasts. Contrary to Frey, she could easily curve her hands around them to cup them. Frey herself had trouble keeping Tigraxauda’s heaving breasts in check. She yelped when Tigraxauda squeezed her nipples. “I’m almost disappointed,” the woman said with a grin. “Such a big mouth. Such tiny tits.” They played with each other’s boobs for a moment, squeezing, kneading and playing with the nipples. All the while they were staring each other in the eyes fiercely, trying to see who would give up first and offer her neck for nibbles and kisses. But in the hands of the confident woman, Frey broke easily. She meowled, and lowered her face into Tigraxauda’s bosom. She squeezed the pillowy breasts against her face, smiling and nibbling left and right. Tigraxauda moaned softly, not letting go of Frey’s chest.

“Pleasure me,” she demanded with a raw voice. Frey obeyed. She licked her nipples and slid a hand down in between her legs. “No.” the woman said. “Not with your hand. Use your mouth, little filly.” She opened her legs and pulled Frey up against her bossom with sheer strength. Then she made her kneel between her knees.

“Lick.” Frey obeyed, seeing her chance to impress the woman. Her soft dismissal had hit home, and Frey wanted to turn this chance into something else. In fact, the thought of wild sex had often filled her secret fantasies during the nights underneath the wagon. Her hand slipped towards her own sultry pussy. The woman liked her, she felt, even apart from letting Frey pleasure her. Somehow, that gave her a warm feeling of safety. Little was left of her rebelliousness when Tigraxauda firmly took her head and pushed her down.

She did her utmost, using her mouth, lips and tongue to rub and stimulate the nomad’s pussy. She was tasty and wet, and Frey’s effort added more than a little spittle. Soon, everything between Tigraxauda's lions and Frey’s cheeks was a sloppy mess and Tigraxauda was half delirious with lust. Her hands were placed around Frey’s ears protectively, and Frey felt the rush of calm submission settle on her like a blanket. Licking, and bobbing her head, she made the muscled woman cum hard, and she screamed and moaned aloud. Frey grinned, satisfied. Her entire snout was wet. She climbed back on the muscled woman’s lap. Her knees were astride her waist, leaning on the chair, and she tried to raise her hips into the woman’s face.

“No!” she shouted dominantly. “Bad girl! Find somebody else to lick your pussy, little trickster. You’re her for my pleasure only.” She pushed Frey back on the ground.

“You’re a bad prisoner. Nothing but trouble. I should teach you a lesson,” Tigraxauda said.

“Yes!” Frey muttered. Her desperate pussy was thoroughly soaked. Tigraxauda slapped her cheek. It was sudden but gentle, and Frey shrieked. “Down,” she ordered. Frey bent over between her legs. “Butt up. Show me.” She craned her hips up. “Bad girl,” Tigraxauda said, at the same time slapping her butcheeks hard. Frey yelped again. “You ought to be punished.” The slaps continued, punctuated by Tigraxauda’s firm voice. “You’ll listen to me!”

After she had put Frey's mouth to work on her pussy another time until she came again, Tigraxauda dragged her to the bed and threw her among the blankets. Frey didn’t remember ever being so docile to _anyone_. Not that she could ever hope to resist the muscled Amazon. Her own body, although athletic and dependable, was no match for the sheer strength and ability that Tigraxauda possessed. Her body was a weapon, taut and strong like the bows she pulled. She could only hope to be like her one day. Tigraxauda climbed into the bed and straddled Frey, squeezing her cheeks with her iron hands. But there was softness as well in the gesture, and she leaned over for a passionate kiss. They looked into each other’s eyes.

“Fuck me, Tiger,” Frey said with all the mischief that was left in her. That was enough to wholly inflame Tigraxauda, who explosively abandoned all restraint. She grabbed Frey’s ankle and craned her leg up. She slammed her tight pussy lips with her hot loins, still wet with her spittle. Frey's legs were pushed open as far as they could. The girl shivered, a tingle running all the way from her neck to her bottom, where a wet pussy was being ground against hers. It was violent, Tigraxauda bucking and thrusting her pelvis for maximum pleasure, disregarding Frey almost entirely. Her clitoris was crushed like a grape, squeezed against the dominant woman’s groin. With one hand, she held on to Frey’s perpendicular leg, with the other she clutched her breast and arm. Frey’s fingers clawed in the blankets to whatever would support her. Her head smashed repeatedly against the bed boards. She was entirely helpless in the face of the rider’s onslaught, and moaned without restraint. After minutes of vehement tribbing, Frey came, and moments later Tigraxauda came too.

They collapsed in each other’s arms, panting heavily. After a while, Tigraxauda muttered: “That was not bad, prisoner. You’re a good ride.”

“Yeah... I know,” Frey beamed. She enjoyed it when others had enjoyed her body. It was part of why she liked fucking so much, especially when she had been submissive. “You’re a good rider. They said that there’s no beast you can’t ride.” They cuddled, with Frey as the little spoon.

“Well, you’re a wild beast indeed. I don’t know why, but you can make me so... savage...”

“We’re both animals, Tiger.”

“Don’t call me that, please.” Frey looked up. She’d never heard her say please. This was the most vulnerable she’d ever seen her.

“Oh. Maybe it’s because you are like me, only older and less hot.”

“Shut up,” Tigraxauda said, smirking. She dropped her head in the pillows. “You amuse me.”

“Well, you can _ride_ me any time, boss. I’m yours after all.”

“I know that.”

And that was that. Tigraxauda's protectiveness felt more real, coiled up in her arms. They cuddled in silence and Tigraxauda fell asleep quickly. Frey enjoyed the feeling of being in a real bed, in the arms of someone. Her body felt bruised, used and messy, but she was happier than ever. She listened to the sound of the rain on the wagon’s roof and fell asleep as well.


	11. Empty-handed

# Empty-handed

_Wainspeople Camp  
Hróðimonth, T.A. 2946_

The dragon banner twirled softly in the wind, snout pointed at Frey. Everything was silent. Behind the multi-coloured glass panes of the lantern, a lazy flame swayed, casting coloured specks and shadows on the wagon’s boards. Something was different than usual, Frey thought. The narrow doors were ajar.

She looked over her shoulders. Nobody was around. She sneaked up to the wagon, with only the dragon witnessing her. Frey looked at it. It supposedly contained the guardian spirit of the tribe, and of the princess in particular. Frey half expected it to turn into a real dragon, or to talk to her. The dragon looked back at Frey from it’s carved and painted eyes, but didn’t interfere. She stepped onto the threshold step, and pushed the door open cautiously. Surely a look couldn’t hurt. The princess probably was away or asleep.

Inside, only a single lantern was lit, on the far end. Frey couldn’t make anything out. She stepped inside and closed the door.

“You know, it’s customary to bring a gift if you come in peace. Not to mention it’s pretty rude to sneak into the royal wagon without permission.”

At the end of the wagon, a figure turned around to look at Frey. She was swathed in dark night robes with the dim reflections of tiny gems, pearls and gold and silver thread. One side of her face was framed with an intricate silver jewel, with many interlocked triangles and circles that showed animals and dragons snaking around each other. It hung from her temple down to below her jaw, shielding her dark hair. The second jewel of a pair lay in the figure’s narrow, painted hands. The princess’s dark eyes shot up proudly at the intruder. Her posture was calm, and she was sitting before a small mirror. Similar jewels lay on her breast and on her forehead. A big golden brooch in the shape of a griffin and a horse held her hair together.

“Oh,” Frey said, pondering the first thing she said but ignoring the second. “I didn’t know I should have brought a gift... So that’s why they were so pissed off when I first showed up.”

“Yes, that, _and_ that you were riding one of our horses,” the princess said. “We have much cause to keep you tied up, Frey of the Beornings.”

“Uh,” Frey said, scratching her head. “Sorry?”

The princess cast her a dark glance. “Yet I allowed you to walk freely among us. My captain was against it. I think she even told you very clearly. But you have made friends.”

“Yes, well, in more than one way,” Frey said, grinning.

“I don’t understand that. Get out now, or I’ll call Tigraxauda. She’s only a yell away.” Frey backed off and the princess grinned mischievously. She was all black eyes and eyebrows and secretly amused by Frey’s bumptiousness. “I’m certain she’ll know the right punishment if she learns that you laid eyes on the Shirdal Princess of the Xshayathiya Tribe...”

“No need to get her involved... I didn’t uh... know whether you were here or not. I thought it was empty.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Frey.”

“Sorry,” Frey said, not being sorry. Being honest was something she was proud of, and she never seriously tried to use lies.

“Get out,” the princess said flatly, turning her back to Frey and back to her mirror. She took off another one of her incredibly intricate jewels. Frey drew back the curtain and took hold of the doorknob. She wasn’t sure if the princess had seen her blush or not.

“Don’t return without a gift,” was what she heard when she stepped out. She raised her eyebrows, at a loss for words. Instead, she closed the door behind her silently.

Zixaïs grinned.


	12. The Warrior Class

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"...together they had succeeded in burning many of the dwellings of the Wainriders, and their storehouses, and their fortified camps of wagons. But most of [the Northmen] had perished in the attempt; for they were ill-armed, and the enemy had not left their homes undefended: their youths and old men were aided by the younger women, who in that people were also trained in arms and fought fiercely in defence of their homes and children."_
> 
> T.A. 1899 - _Of Cirion and Eorl,_ Unfinished Tales

# The Warrior Class

_Wainspeople Camp, Austramonth, T.A. 2946_

Tigraxauda was a warrior, the only real one left in the camp. She had shared her wagon with the two others that had gone missing: Targitaos and Takhmaspa. They were men, but it appeared that women could easily be warriors too. Tigraxauda wasn’t an exception because she was a woman. She was an exception because she was the only one. The camp had no other warriors than those three. Indeed, there appeared to be a whole generation of men and women lacking. There were many children and youngsters, boys and girls of Frey’s age, that would have still been children a few years ago. There were a few young women, but most adult women were connected to a family. They were mothers or grandmothers. The men in the camp were mostly elderly men, too old to be warriors although they might have been in the past. Some of the fathers and mothers in the camp rode with Tigraxauda on occasion. But it was clear that they were no warriors. There were no specialized tradesmen too, and most of the chores and trades were done by the women. Blacksmithing was rare but when it occurred that a horse had lost a hoof and needed to be shod again, it was done by a whole bunch of people at the same time with a lot of discussion. Although they didn’t involve Freydis, it was clear to her that they didn’t have experience with it.

However, it was clear from the behaviour of the others in the camp and the way they talked about Tigraxauda, that she was a warrior, and that warriors were different from the others. Frey heard that they had been led by the three warriors together, without one being the leader. Now there was only Tigraxauda left and as the only warrior, she had the most senior position just below the princess.

Wainspeople warriors were men or women whose concerns about the safety and defence of the camp was their full-time occupation. They did the scouting, fought off the wild animals and planned the next stopovers and winter camps. When the tribe encountered other human societies, the warriors negotiated on their behalf, and took up arms to protect the tribe if a truce could not be settled. Most tribes avoided that, staying to the fringes of the human kingdoms, but there were many belligerent humans who had less peaceable intentions towards them. Wilderland is a dangerous place, and there are many more threats, some of which cannot be negotiated with. Against these threats, only a well-trained warrior with a weapon can hope to protect his folk, and that is why every people, even the most peaceable folk like the Elves, have their heroes and warriors.

The warrior class also had a lot of prerogatives and privileges. In that, they were similar to the housecarls of the Northmen, like the men in Beorn's Hall or other Northmen mead-halls. Although the Warriors could take mates, they were unmarried as long as their tenure lasted. When they settled with a family, something that could only be achieved with the blessing of the chieftain, they were no longer considered part of the warrior class. It was similar for the Northmen. All those who weren’t warriors were freemen for them. There were no thralls or serfs among them, and neither were there among the Wainspeople. But there were plenty of other human societies in Wilderland where that wasn’t the case. There were many unfree Wainspeople and even Northmen living in thralldom in the cruel societies in the Brown Lands and beyond, to the East, where the influence of the Dark Lord still lingered. 

Although normally the chief makes the decisions, a good chief must depend on his retainers and his warriors, and always consults with them. There was no chief or king among them and Tigraxauda was never referred to as that, although people looked to her for leadership. The princess, Zixaïs, seldomly appeared in public. People were fond of her, but she remained inside most of the time. Frey had noticed how Tigraxauda always went to talk with her when decisions needed to be made. But the princess wasn’t who people looked to for leadership.

Tigraxauda was well-liked by the entire tribe. There was no one that didn’t respect her. It was clear that she, along with the two other warriors, had guided them through a lot of perils and dangerous journeys, although what exactly, no one wanted to tell Freydis. The loyalty of the tribesmen was indubitable. Sitting with them at their hearths and talking with them, Frey could feel their admiration for her. They idolized her. They were devoted to their princess, for whom they had nothing but affection, but to Tigraxauda they looked up. They expected her guidance and her wisdom, and they were relieved when she made the difficult choices, banding together behind her when she did. Perhaps this was what parents were, Frey thought. She had grown up as an orphan. She couldn’t decide whether Tigraxauda was a father figure to the tribe, or a mother figure, or both at the same time.

Her role as warrior gave her certain privileges, Frey noticed. Warriors could take a mate, and apparently women warriors could take women as mate as well as men. But Tigraxauda didn’t appear to be associated with anyone in particular. Nobody would tell an outsider anything of her past when she asked whether she had been married once. She loved all the tribespeople, and her pupils most of all. Among them, however, there were those that were slightly more devoted to her than others. Frey wasn’t the only one visiting the warrior’s wagon. She had noticed that sometimes one of Tigraxauda’s girls or boys followed her into her wagon at night. Sometimes even two at the same time. But there was no jealousy among them. Because Frey happened to sleep right underneath the warrior’s wagon, she saw who it was that came and who stayed for the night, too. Súragaitha, the skinny, darkly-looking brooding girl that had become a good friend of Frey’s, appeared to be one of Tigraxauda's favourites in terms of number of visits... But Frey too was called upon a few more times to pleasure Tigraxauda and sleep in her strong arms. The nightly visitors, it seemed to Freydis, were there for her to wind down, to pleasure her, but it was clear that that comfort was more than just sexual, and that there was a lot of affection too. However, she could never tell how the amazon really felt about her. Her face and her words were almost always stern and guarded, and she seemed adamant about not choosing a favourite in public. 

On the whole, it appeared to Freydis that Tigraxauda was not only looking after the tribe’s defence and survival, but also that she was training a new generation of warriors. The same couple of riders, perhaps a dozen, followed her nigh every day. They were the riders that had encircled Frey when she first appeared at the camp. They were often away with her from the camp, riding who knows where, but never far. When they were in view and they weren't helping with other chores, they were practicing riding or shooting or they sat in a circle, listening to Tigraxauda. Training more warriors would have been a priority for Tigraxauda. She didn’t like war and took a peaceable solution whenever possible, but she knew that the survival of the tribe depended on a few people that could hold their nerve under pressure and be confident about their combat abilities.


	13. Cuddles and Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: some sexual content!**
> 
> Other warnings: F/F, occasional F/M/M, mild BDSM, some other mild kinks. Fair warning for a potential underage character as well (over 16 y/o).
> 
> Fluff and even some _genuine plot advancement_ after the smut.

# Cuddles and Lessons

_Wainspeople Camp, Austramonth, T.A. 2946_

One night, Frey was lying in Tigraxauda’s arms. They had made love, and both were exhausted. Frey had attempted to top Tigraxauda again, but she had fought back. Clearly, she loved denying Frey the pleasure of being on top. But Frey loved to struggle for it and didn’t fall into a docile role quickly. Tigraxauda, behind all her faked annoyance, seemed to like that too. Others she could have were naturally submissive, but she liked Frey’s spirit, and she liked breaking it. She played with the younger woman, taking longer than she could have to overpower her and submit her. Her punishment wasn’t mild that night, as Frey expected. Tigraxauda spanked her harshly, making sure Frey would still feel sore the next day. She made her repeat that she was a bad girl and other things that taught her her place. Then, she yanked open her legs, and slapped her pussy. Frey yelped, every slap removing more of her resolve until there was nothing left and she was a wet plaything in Tigraxauda’s strong hands. After the spanking, she punish-fingered her, inserting more fingers into her than Frey herself had ever dared. She came, the waves of orgasm clenching on Tigraxauda’s fingers. After than, Tigraxauda simply mounted her face and rode out all of her pent-up anger and lust on Frey’s flushed face. She rode until she was done with her, many orgasms later, and collapsed in the bunk next to Frey. Her hand found Frey’s small breast and rested there, heaving up and down with the motion of her breathing. After a while, Frey dragged herself into the warm hollow of Tigraxauda’s embrace, where it smelt of her. Ferns, grass, horse and food. She smiled as she snuggled into her arms.

“You know,” Frey whispered, breaking the silence after a long while. “I love it when you teach me a lesson...”

Tigraxauda let out a tired scoff. “Me too. But don’t get used to it, though. It was a punishment. Maybe not too good, if you liked it so much.” She answered. Her voice was slow and tired, and she brought a hand to her face, rubbing her eye sockets. “I’m not terribly interested in whether you like it or not, short-hair, or your orgasm. Either you cum or you don’t. But you make me cum.” What she said was egoistic and harsh, but her voice was softer and the edge was taken of her sternness by the night and the exhaustion. By now, Frey knew that it was mostly a posture. She worked hard for the tribe, doing her duties to a fault and taking up grave responsibilities. At night, she just wanted someone to give her what she wanted: good sex. Frey loved to be that person. She loved to be on top and turn people to her pleasure, but secretly, she also loved to be dominated. Her insecurities melted away as she was being taken for somebody’s pleasure, because he knew, for a fact, that people enjoyed her. Her hidden craving for other people’s acceptance and affection went far. Being made into a tool for pleasure was humiliating, but while it lasted it gave Frey respite from her secretly insecure inflated over-confidence. But that was something she couldn't do without a fight.

“I love a good cock too, sometimes. Don’t you ever miss it, Tiger?”

She turned her head to the side abruptly, raising an eyebrow and giving Frey a look that was half amusal and half utter disinterest. It was a look that fit her well: aloof, as if she was high on her horse and looking down at Frey. As if she wanted her eyes to tell: ‘Oh, you’re that kind of girl. I am not surprised.’ Nothing could get past that look, Frey thought. She loved it. But there was affection too in that look, or she wouldn’t have looked at all. Frey knew that and saw it. Her words were a challenge and she had bitten.

“Yeah? You know. A big, hard cock,” Frey said, gesturing with her arms and whistling. “Nothing says ‘lust’ like a full-on erection, no?”

“No man here has anything interesting to me,” Tigraxauda said simply.

“Yeah, they’re all boys... Good for licking your pussy, but not for banging the shit out of you. I get that. I mean, you don’t let yourself go easily, right?”

“No. As I said, I’m not interested in that...” Tigraxauda said cautiously.

“You’ve never been fucked before by a man?” Frey said, challenge flickering in her eyes. “Like a proper one. One that fills you up nicely. I miss that feeling. At Beorn’s place, we...”

“I’ve had men before,” the amazon lady interrupted curtly, rolling her eyes. “Of course. I know how it feels.”

“Ah!” Frey said, triumphantly. “So do you like it?”

“It’s okay, I guess.” Something had changed in her eyes, and she had suddenly become vulnerable. Frey smiled, still snuggling in her arms. Sometimes, at evenings like this, she’d lower her guard. These vulnerable moments never happened otherwise, except here in the wagon, after sex with Frey.

“Targitaos, Takhmaspa and I sometimes... Well, that’s really none of your business!” Tigraxauda said, and playfully flicked Frey’s nose. She was enjoying it now, now that her shield was down.

“Come on! I know how warriors are! I’m sure they were better than these other ‘boys’.” Her mind's eye saw Tigraxauda being banged by two tough, muscled warriors at the same time. One in front, one at the back. Or one after the other, taking turns. Or one above, one underneath her, both of them fucking her. Or her on top, commanding and riding the men... At night, when she lay underneath the wagon, those were some of her many fantasies when she fingered herself, huddled in the hides and blankets. Sometimes, she had been one of the men. Sometimes, she was Tigraxauda.

Tigraxauda's lips curved slightly, perhaps from a memory too, or because of Frey’s boisterousness.

“As good as any,” she said. “They weren't bad for men. Some of the best sex I ever had even,”

“So you admit to missing it,” Frey said, triumphantly.

“Yes, I guess. But I like women better, at least when they're manageable," she said, with a sly eye on Frey. "Don't get any ideas. You’re not finding me a man. ”

Frey laughed at her suggestion. “Who says I would share him?”

Tigraxauda smiled, then sighed wistfully. “Don’t think I don’t miss them. We were lovers now and then, but we were blood brothers in the first place. We… went through a lot together.”

Her face became more grim, and she wouldn’t say more to Frey. But her arm around remained soft, slung around her prisoner in a gesture that said both kindness and protection.

“I wish I knew what happened to them,” Freydis said, after a silence. It stirred Tigraxauda from deep, melancholic thoughts. “At least one of them escaped, as I said.”

“I feel they’re gone,” Tigraxauda said with a resigned confidence. “Orcs are on the other side of the river, we saw them while scouting at dusk. I don’t give the riders much chance. They know their way, they would have returned by now. I would go search for them myself, but I can’t leave the tribe and the princess alone. Not without proper protection. If I should be gone, no one can guide them.”

“Then we will go look for them together. Give me my sword back, we’ll cross the River and...”

“No. You are our prisoner,” Tigraxauda said with a sudden harshness. “Nothing has changed about that. And don’t get any ideas,” she said, reading her thoughts. Frey had been thinking of going there alone, with or without sword, to scout. She’d return with evidence that would liberate her – or at least gain the trust of the tribe. “If you go alone, not only do you doom yourself, but you will endanger the tribe. If you would do such a selfish, careless thing, I would...”

But she didn’t finish her sentence. The safety of the tribe was the most important thing for her. If Frey would come between her and it, nothing could safe Frey. She nodded.

“You underestimate orcs,” Tigraxauda said, like trainer to a recruit. “They are vicious, and there are many of them. Even two experienced riders were outsmarted by them. Alone, you make no chance. You’d need more companions to cross onto the west bank now.”

They remained silent for a while.

“Perhaps they are captured by the orcs. Orcs do not always kill who they capture outright.”

“I know,” Tigraxauda said, deep in thoughts again. Lines of sorrow crossed on her brow. "Perhaps."


	14. Archery

# Archery

_Wainspeople Camp, Austramonth, T.A. 2946_

“Look,” Súragaitha said. “You need to hook your thumb behind the bowstring. That way you can make a fist and put more energy in your draw.” She took Frey’s fingers and showed her the way to hook them around the string. “Secure the arrow with your other fingers,” she added.

“Here, try this,” her brother interjected. His voice was lighter and more carefree than his sister’s. She was often brooding and still a bit suspicious of Frey. She had opened up a bit more though than since the start, and today was one of those times that Frey saw her good side too. Akhsartag was less complicated about it, and obviously had taken a liking to the outsider. He gave her a thumb ring made from bone or ivory. It was thicker on one side and smoothed by the many bowstrings that had passed. He put it on her thumb.

“Use it to trigger the string. You won’t hurt your fingers that way.”

The siblings stepped back and Frey drew the bow. It was small but incredibly rigid. It even took all the strength of her powerful arms. By making a fist around the tense string, like Súragaitha instructed, she could pull better. She released it. With a sharp twang the arrow shot forth. Somewhere along the way it changed from a harsh, violent thrust into a graceful arc. Like a calligrapher who draws a letter with a swan pen, adding meaning, grace and direction to an otherwise crude stroke. The feathered arrow whirled around its axis and plunged into the grass, missing the target by a huge distance. Súragaitha and Akhsartag laughed.

“Did you try to aim at all?!” they chuckled. “At least you got it in the right direction. Now try this...”

Súragaitha jumped lightly onto the back of her horse, nudged it into a gallop with her thighs and a few clicks of her tongue. They galloped to the the target and she nocked an arrow, waiting patiently for the horse to pass it at full speed. Then, she turned around in the saddle, drew the bowstring back and shot. The white arrow pierced the target with an aggressive thud, its point sticking out on the other side. She jumped off the horse in front of Frey, a superior grin on her face.

Frey scowled at them, being a sore loser. It wasn’t fun to learn a skill right from the beginning, and she hated to suck at something. Even if her instructors had been doing it their entire lives. There was no way she could ever be better than them.

“I told you, archery is nothing for me. I prefer to be in the thick of it, where the action is. With a good sword or a spear and shield.”

“You should show us how you settled people fight, then,” Akhsartag said.

“I’d kick your asses in close quarters any day... Unfortunately, Tigraxauda has my sword.”

But she picked up a stick and, pretending it was a sword, she showed the siblings a few tricks. She knew for certain that her time to prove herself would come. And before the month was over, it came.

  
  


  
  



	15. Gifts

# Gifts

_Wainspeople Camp  
A few days before Eostre, T.A. 2946_

Axshaïna was a woman of the tribe. She was not of the younger generation. Axshaïna had bright red hair and brown eyes, she loved her family above anything. She had had four children in her life. Her oldest son had been slain in an orc ambush. Now she had only three children. The eldest was riding with Tigraxauda. Her husband was an old herder who had been injured in an attack by wolves. His hand was paralyzed and he could no longer draw a bow. Among the women of the camp, she had something of an authority, because she was expert in building kilns. If there was clay available near the camp-place, she would quickly set herself to create an oven, and she knew how to create the hottest fires with any wood. She created bread and cereal pancakes for the tribe, and many came to her for the baking. She had seen the stranger with the blue eyes come into the camp and had baked food for her when she was in the sheep pens. Since she was allowed to walk around, she had invited her a few times for a meal. She could not speak the stranger’s language well, but they communicated decently enough. More importantly for Axshaïna, Frey was good with the children. They looked up to her and played often together, as if she was their bigger sister. Her husband disapproved, but he was often away and she did what she wanted anyway. She hoped that her children would pick up some of Frey’s language. They would be smarter and wiser by talking to strangers, she believed.

Frey had come to her today with a strange request while she was baking bread. She asked if she could use her kiln. It wasn’t the first time she helped out with baking – Tigraxauda had told the tribespeople she was supposed to be doing chores – but usually she had given her the flour to knead or something like that.

“It’s only for baking,” Axshaïna tried to say. That was what she intended to, Frey replied. Axhaïna agreed, and Frey helped her with finishing the bread. She wouldn’t tell what she intended, but listened and looked intently as Axshaïna showed how to operate the oven. When the bread was finished, Frey remained at the oven for hours after that, working. She had bidden the Wainspeople woman to leave because her recipe was secret. The children remained to keep an eye on the oven. Apparently Frey included them in the secret, because they would not tell a word to their mother about the secret recipe afterwards. “Only bears and Beornings can know it,” they said, “and Frey said that we were bear cubs.” It was late at night when Frey came back from the oven, and the Beorning cubs had gone to sleep already.

“They need to be baked at least twice to be really chewy,” Frey said mysteriously, and showed her what she had made: deliciously smelling honey-cake.

*

It was late but Tigraxauda was still grooming her horse alone. Suddenly she became aware of an unfamiliar, sweet smell. She turned around, surprised. Frey stood there, holding a small bundle in two hands. Something wrapped in a cloth.

“I have something for you,” Frey said. She tried to sound matter-of-factly but clearly she was very proud. She offered the bundle to Tigraxauda.

“Eh… Thank you,” the woman said, not knowing how else to react. She looked at her own hands: they were dirty with clots of mud and horse hair. She quickly wiped them on a cloth. She took the bundle and peeked underneath the cloth. She looked up at Frey.

“What’s this?”

“A honey-cake. I learned to make them in Beorn’s house. We make them for Easter and other feast days, or just like that. I’m not the best baker and I didn’t find all the spices here that we use there, but I’m quite proud to be honest,” she blathered, beaming. “They keep long very well. The Beornings are quiet famous for them, it’s Beorn’s secret recipe. I hope you’re not allergic or anything in them.”

“You made this?”

“Yes.”

“For me?”

“Yes!”

“...Why?” Tigraxauda said cautiously. She had a face as if someone was trying to poison her in broad daylight. Or at least buy her off with cake. "Have you done something again?"

“No. I just thought that I might give you a taste of my food, too. After all, I’ve had many meals here and got to taste your food. And I wanted to thank you for your hospitality.”

“Well, it’s true. You’re more a guest than a prisoner lately,” Tigraxauda said with a wry smile. “But I’m hardly the person you should thank. I’m only the right hand of our princess. She’s the one that makes the decisions. If anybody, you should thank her.”

“No,” Frey said, shaking her head cockily. “I baked this for you, Tiger.”

“I told you not to...” Tigraxauda started sternly, but then she stopped. She sighed. “Fine. I’ll accept your gift. It does smell very good. Thank you, Freydis.”

Frey smiled broadly, “We have it as dessert and breakfast, but it keeps well and it’s good sustenance on long journeys or… exhausting activities...”

She winked and walked away, leaving Tigraxauda standing near the horse, utterly confused.

*

Frey slept lightly that night. When Tigraxauda came back from grooming her horse and climbed into her wagon, she pretended to be asleep. A while after the footsteps above her had ceased, she got up. She took her cloak and crawled out from underneath the wagon, anxiously looking over her shoulder, but nothing stirred in the wagon. Tigraxauda was alone and asleep. Trying to be as quiet as possible, she snuck through the camp.

Softly, she knocked the painted door of the royal wagon and waited. The dragon banner waved gently and the carved idols seemed to keep an eye on her again. The door opened a few inches, and the princess peeked through it. Her black eyes fell on Frey.

“Prisoner?” she said with a calm voice.

“My lady,” Frey said, making a quick bow.

“Why are you here? It’s past midnight.”

“I brought a gift for you, like you asked,” Frey said, taking a small bundle from underneath her cloak. It contained another honey-cake, the same size like the one she had given to Tigraxauda.

“Really?” Zixaïs chuckled, apparently surprised. “And what is it?”

Frey reached out to offer the bundle to her. The door of the wagon was high, and steps were needed to reach it. The princess squatted to take the gift from the foreigner. She sat down on the threshold, her robes spilling from the sill and her light, naked feet excitedly twiddling on the step. She was level level with Frey’s eyes, who studied her face as she opened the wrappings. 

“A honey-cake!” Zixaïs said, laughing happily.

“Yes – Wait, how did you know it is a honey-cake? It’s a secret recipe of my tribe...”

“Well...” the princess said, with a trailing voice and an enigmatic look. “They’re quite famous. Who hasn’t heard of Beorn’s honey-cakes...”

Frey nodded, agreeing. “They’re twice-baked. I worked long on them. There should be some other spices but I don’t think the result is bad.

“I always wanted to try them.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Zixaïs beamed, looking at her visitor. She did not get up or invite Frey inside the wagon.

“So eh...” Frey said, rubbing her hair. She did not really have a plan or anything to say. “I wanted to say… Thank you for your hospitality. It is clear to me that everyone in the tribe is devoted to you. And Tigraxauda speaks very highly of you.”

“That’s very kind. I’m happy to have her. You should give a cake to her, she does all the heavy work around here. I barely deserve it.”

“No-no. Heh, it’s fine. It’s for you. I’ll… make one for her another time I guess.”

“You know. She speaks very highly of you too.”

“She does?” Frey said, alarmed. “Well, don’t believe everything she says…”

She could have heard anything from the warrior lady. But it surprised her that it was apparently good.

“I’ll see for myself, I hope.”

“I’m sure I’m giving her a lot of trouble,” Frey said.

“I’m sure you do,” Zixaïs said. “But she can handle you. She wouldn’t be my captain if she couldn’t, right?”

“She’s a very capable woman,” Frey said courteously. “You’re lucky to have her. You have a beautiful tribe. I am glad that I am… eh… a prisoner of it.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

"Well, enjoy it," Frey said, vaguely gesturing towards the cake on the lap of the princess.

"I will. And I will consider another visit from you,"

"I'd love that."

"Maybe during a more decent hour."

"Ah, yes, of course... Then I don't have to sneak away secretly from your captain."

Both of them chuckled.

"I won't tell her that you were here, don't worry."

Another silence.

“Well, sweet dreams tonight, Zixaï...”

“My lady,” she interrupted.

“My lady,” Frey concluded, bowing slightly.

“Goodnight, Freydis.”

Frey drew a hand through her hair, smiled and turned around. She walked away, not looking behind.

‘Well, that went well. That went… well… That went terrible!’ Frey thought as she was walking silently between the wagons and the tents. She scolded herself for her behaviour. ‘Was I cool enough? Wait, did she see me looking at her neckline!?’

She checked herself. She couldn’t start falling in love _here._ Not with a _princess?!_ That was just asking for trouble. She bit her lip. No, it was nothing, she said to herself. Nothing, perhaps just a crush. It’s just a game.

‘She’s cute though.’ Frey thought and shrugged as she crawled underneath the wagon. ‘But nothing special. Just… a plain old… princess… Her eyes, yes, they’re nice. And she has that _thing_ with her eyebrows. I’m a sucker for that. But nah,’ She ducked in her blankets and closed her eyes. ‘Just some princess,’ she said to herself and turned on the other side. But her sleep was far from quiet.

*

A few wagons away from there, the princess quietly closed the door with a smile lingering on her mouth’s corners. She went to her table and placed the honey-cake next to another identical honey-cake.


	16. A very slow simmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discover some Wainspeople cuisine and how Freydis got her name...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning: explicit sexual content** : bisexual characters, M/F, age difference kink, oral sex, size queen/big cock kink, other kinky stuff. Explores some darker parts of Freydis and her fantasies. Also contains some gentler bits, before and after the smut.

# A very slow simmer

_Wainspeople Camp  
A few days before Eostre, T.A. 2946_

There weren’t enough nights like that, Freydis thought. Usually, when the work was done it was late and she was tired. And when she had some spare time, Akhsartag, Súragaitha, and the other young riders were training or scouting with Tigraxauda. But today they had returned early, and some of them had gone looking for Frey. They found her at the tent where she was storing the last of the felt bundles, finishing her chores for today. It was the time of Eostre, the feast-day that marked the symbolic start of spring. They decided to make food and have dinner together. Within moments, quick nomad hands had succeeded in lighting a small fire and others returned with aniseed buns, various ingredients, knives, spoons and bowls and a big ceramic pot. It was one of the Wainspeople’s staples: some mixed meat buried under a mound of roughly cut vegetables and dried fruits, baked in a covered, ceramic pot buried in the embers and coals at the edge of the campfire. It had enough herbs and spices to taste sufficiently exotic for Frey. She did not take meat often, as most Beornings, like their master, avoided eating animals. But like Tigraxauda had said, animals were a gift and it was their duty to make sure nothing went to waste. The animals of the tribe lived happy lives, and Frey had seen on more than one occasion how much the tribespeople cared for their beasts.

As the dish required a very slow simmer, there was plenty of time to talk. It was a perfect dish for a group of chatty, excited teenagers to prepare, as it required almost no skill. The spice blend was made from a dozen or more separate flavourings, and they had lots of fun showing them to Frey and telling their names. A mere fraction of it only she recognized. There were many spices that she knew in another form, but that were used by the Wainspeople for their roots, fibres, flowers, pods or nuts rather than only their leaves or fruits. Many herbs she had no name for because they came from the East. Travelling on old trade routes and having friends Eastward had some advantages after all.

The tent lay a bit out of the circle of tents and wagons, not far from the clearing where they shaved the sheep and made the felt. Tigraxauda came to check up on them after their training, and she saw that all was well and didn’t interfere with their meeting. Two riders went with her to look after the camp’s evening watch and the turns for the night watch were also decided.

As the shadows were lengthening the fire’s mysterious power to bind people together waxed. Freydis explained that a few of their spices were used by the Beornings to mix in the dough of the honey-cakes on feast-days. Ginger, cinnamon, anise, fennel, cloves… She had worked in the kitchen enough to know the names and flavours of the most ubiquitous ones (even though she rather went sparring), and translated them for the Wainspeople. At this, they started asking her about Beorn and his folk. All of them knew where she came from, and Beorn’s fame had spread to every corner of the Vales of the Anduin by now, and further beyond. They were curious, to say the least, about the man who could change into a bear.

“Are you really a Beorning?” they asked her.

“Of course!” she said, indignantly. “Freydis doesn’t lie! Can’t you see my arm hair?” She pulled up her sleeve, holding up her bare arm. Her mocha skin was covered with some dark brown hairs that made her inordinately proud. The others laughed.

“If you could change into a bear, it would be just a cub,” Súragaitha said with a derisive smirk.

“Hah! I don’t change into _bears,”_ she said, but nobody picked up on the hidden meaning. “Not all of the Beornings change into bears.”

“But is it true?” Akhsartag asked insistently, “Can Beorn really change into a bear?” He liked bears, probably as much as Frey liked Eagles.

“What? No, that’s just poetic license. Exaggeration by bards. Who changes into a bear?! Come on!”

“Oh,” Akhsartag said, disappointedly. Freydis laughed.

“No of course not,” she laughed, “I was kidding. He actually does! A big black bear, much bigger than your normal mountain critter.”

Akhsartag looked up, setting his slanted eyes back on her. The others too were listening.

“Have you seen it?” Axshaïnaspa said curiously. He was the eldest son of Axshaïna who oversaw the oven: a freckly, ginger-haired lad with amber eyes like his mother. He had more freckles than Frey had ever had, but nobody in this tribe was laughing with it.

“Yes,” Frey said enigmatically. She relished in the attention. “I have even seen him slip shapes. Once. Few have, because he usually does it at night and out of sight. I’m not sure if I should tell you this story...”

“Tell more!” the others cried. “How is he? What kind of a man?” They had heard stories that Beorn was a savage, while in other stories he was a hero. There was a puppet of him. Frey thought for a while on how to best characterize him.

“When he is angry, he is terrible to behold. His strength is… terrible. He can rip an orc’s head from his shoulders with his bare hands… And that's when he's in human shape. In bear shape he is worse. But he is a gentle soul. He hates goblins with a passion, but he would never harm an innocent. He is a trustworthy friend, and he considers words and promises very grave. That is why he doesn’t speak much. Compared to other leaders, he is not refined or particularly majestic. Even a bit uncouth. (He still fights with his giant woodcutting axe,)” she added aside, to Akhsartag.

“But there is something regal about his demeanour, and many call him a great leader. Fitting for one who has two shapes, he has two sides. One gentle and protective, the other hard and terrible.”

“How did you see him change shape? Tell us the story.”

“Well,” Frey said.

_Foothills of the Misty Mountains,_  
_West of the Carrock_  
_10th of Wintrufulliths, T.A. 2945_

It was early in the morning, the sun was lighting up the flanks of the Misty Mountains ahead of Frey. Her leg wraps were wet from the dew on the highland grass and brushwood, but her feet were dry, shod in sturdy mountain shoes. She had gotten up early with the morning star to climb the mountains and see the Eagles again. She had skipped breakfast but had taken a slice of honey cake from the granary.

She had to cross to a small forest of pine trees in a small dale. The trees grew very tall there, skinny trunks parallel with each other. Only high above her their branches finally touched, making a roof of green needles. The forest was light and she could look almost entirely through it. Underneath her feet was a crunching blanket of old needles, branches and pine-cones. Suddenly, she saw something in the middle of the forest, near a group of grey rocks that tore through the needle-covered floor. It looked like a pile of garments and other cast-off items. This was not a busy path, Frey thought. It led straight into the mountains, and in these parts there was little to find even for the Beornings. She went through the clothes with her walking cane. There was a giant axe there that looked familiar. Suddenly, her eyes fell on a shimmer between the needles. She stooped and reached out. A ring. It was a thick band of gold with a clear amber gemstone carefully set in it, like molten honey. It was encircled by a snaking dragon biting it’s tail and rings of dwarf runes. It caught the thin rays of morning light. Everyone in Beorn’s Hall knew that ring, and knew who it belonged to.

Suddenly she heard a loud noise behind her. She turned around. A huge black bear leapt from the rocks, just next to the pile of clothes. It glaring at her with scowling, yellow eyes that shone with a fey light. Even on its four paws it was taller than Frey.

“Whoah,” she said, raising one hand and slowly stooping to put the ring back on the ground, not losing the bear out of sight.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t...” She stammered, slowly taking a step back.

The bear roared mightily at her. It was muffled by the dry needles in the empty forest. It came closer, sniffing the clothes. She took more steps backwards, hitting a fallen tree trunk. Slowly, she stepped back over it.

“Easy there,” Frey said calmly. She knew how to deal with wolves, but bears were not a common sight in the Vales of the Anduin. Wolves had to be chased away by big gestures or fire or a display of power, but that might not be a good idea for a bear. Bears were in general not aggressive towards humans and didn’t prey on them. They were protective of their territory and their possessions… such as a pile of garments. Frey knew better than to anger it even more. The massive animal bared its teeth and snarled. His old snout was scarred from past combats. It took a step closer to Freydis. With its back paw it crushed her spear that she had dropped. The ashen shaft was as thick as her wrist, but the bear shattered it as if it was a breadstick.

“I just arrived… I didn’t take anything. Look,” Frey said slowly, showing her open hands. She had only a puny dagger in the belt around her waist, but attacking it was out of the question. She did not lose the bear out of her eyes, but tried to look as unthreatening as possible.

The bear advanced towards the fallen pine tree. It put its front paw on it, breaking it with no more effort than it had crushed the spear. It reared up on its two hind legs and bellowed again, flailing his powerful arms in the air. His roar thundered through the pine forest and nearly deafened Freydis. Its massive shadow easily enveloped her, and she looked up slowly and swallowed. The bear was easily two times her height and would easily reach the highest rafters in the Hall. Thick black fur covered his massive frame. There was only one bear of that size in the Vales.

“Easy, easy. I’m on your side,” Frey muttered. A pale golden sunray fell on the bear’s snout. It appeared to fall back on all fours, but instead a change took place. His dark form shrank and shifted and his black fur thinned. His paws streched out and became a strong hand with powerful fingers, his bear arms changed and became muscular, veined arms, thick as trunks and covered in black hair. His scarred snout receded and the face of a man appeared, features hidden in the shadow of a scowl and a mighty black beard.

A stooped figure stood before her, panting gently. Locks of black hair cascaded down his back and shoulders, threaded with grey.

“Beorn,” Frey said. She let out a relieved sound and straightened her back. The man could be reasoned with, but the bear was a menace, even for his friends. When Beorn became a bear and stalked the paths and dales of the Misty Mountains, he never took companions. Likewise, when he led his men in the expeditions against the goblins, he was never in the shape of a bear. Few had seen this shape, but now Frey saw that their tales of it’s magnificence and size were not exagerrated. Beorn was a giant of a man, his shoulders easily sticking above the heads of even his tallest housecarls, but even so no one could imagine truly how majestic he was in the shape of a bear. But Beorn had good reasons to stay away from witnesses, and perhaps Frey had just escaped a grisly death at the hands of her own master.

He looked up at her. There was still a wild look in his honey-brown eyes, but also a gentleness.

“Frey,” he said. “Right? The girl who wants to become a warrior.”

“That’s right,” Frey said wryly. His clan was still small compared to other Northmen or Woodsmen tribes, but it was no secret that Beorn was not so good with names. Perhaps being a bear now and then made it difficult for him to remember those human details. Beorn nodded and straightened his back as if he got up from a slumber. Frey swallowed again, but no longer from fear. Apart from his beard and wild hair, her master was stark naked. Black hairs covered his arms and body, but there was more than enough human on display for Frey.

“What are you doing here?” he said sternly, ignoring her curious glances. He stepped up and stood squarely in front of her. Freydis discovered that some of his body parts were even more out of proportion than the rest of his body. She tore her eyes off his improbably big manhood and looked at him.

“I got up to climb the mountains, to see the Eagles,” she replied.

“Alone? With only a spear and a dagger? There are orcs up these paths,” Beorn grunted. His voice was still deep and raw. “Or at least, there were.” he muttered in his beard.

“But it’s day. I was going to return tonight.”

“That doesn’t matter. There are clefts and valleys in these mountains where the sun never shines, and orcs are masterful ambushers.”

Frey was going to answer, but Beorn cut her off. “I do not allow it. Not even of my warriors.”

“Yet you were there, alone.”

“Yes – and you have seen how. I know these valleys and paths better than anyone. I grew up in the mountains and have lived in the valleys ever since.”

Frey sighed, then nodded. Beorn still didn’t make any movement towards his clothes, his eyes pinning Frey down. Frey, embarrassed, tried avoiding his gaze but her eyes kept leering towards his body.

“First time you see a human?” Beorn said with a wicked grin.

“No. It’s just that...”

“You like what you see?”

Frey looked up, his posture inviting her for another look. He stood their, back straight. Her eyes went over his brawny shoulders, his veined arms, his thighs and legs, thick as the logs that held up the hall. His chest was broad and hairy. His stomach was no longer flat and narrow, but of his brawn there was little question: his bulging abs were impressive. Decades of heavy exercise and a diet of honey-cakes, dairy and cereals had given him the body of a giant. Although it was not the first time that Frey saw a man naked, it was the first time she was so impressed. Beorn was no ordinary man, not in any measure. Her heart was thumping in her chest when she looked at his loins.

“Well,” Beorn said, laughing.

“I’m… Well, yes.” Frey said, pursing her lips to the side and touching her chin. “Can’t lie about that. Why are you so big?”

Beorn’s laugh roared through the pine forest. “Eat lots of honey cakes, Frey, and perhaps one day you’ll be like me too.”

“I can’t wait until I have a dick like that,” Frey said, raising an eyebrow. Beorn chuckled.

“It’s more a curse than a blessing, to be honest,” he said, visibly flattered.

“I can’t imagine that you have trouble with that,” Frey snarked. “Being the chief and all that.” Beorn was bethrothed, but everybody knew that he would not have a kind marriage that was exclusive. When he took a lover, he was not secretive about it, and neither were his housecarls. Often, a feast in the hall ended with a more or less public orgy. That was the custom in Beorn’s hall. They had a wild reputation throughout Rhovanion, and not only for their savage fight against the goblins.

“Is that perhaps how Hwelptheow thinks?” Beorn’s bethrothed had of course already shared his bed. It was unthinkable that Beorn would take a mate that could not handle him. It was equally well-known that he wanted many sons and daughters. Hwelptheow symbolized much more than an alliance with her clan, she was the future of Beorn’s line. Even so, it was unclear how the skinny, small mountain princess barely older than Frey managed to indulge a man like Beorn – and how she still looked unscathed all the time.

She might look like a frial and young elm, but she was proud and wilful, and all the housecarls knew that no one had more influence over Beorn. There clearly was a lot of love between them. Although she was not a third of his age, their strong personalities were a perfect match.

“I conquered Hwelptheow, don’t worry. That sweetheart is still as tight as the first night, but she says no other man can impress her anymore.”

Frey cringed, as always when one of the men of the hall were talking about women.

“That’s an impressive boast, considering that the reverse cannot be said about you.”

“True,” Beorn said with a good-natured laugh. “I am loyal to my love, but she’s not the only one I sleep with. As you say, being the chief has perks. Have you been with a man before?”

“Yes, a few of them,” she said, feeling that it was something to brag about. She wanted to impress him, and she didn’t want to do it by acting like a demure virgin. But it was no lie.

“Then you know perhaps what I am talking about.”

“It was hardly awe-inspiring,” Frey sighed. She had had sex a few times with some of the teenagers of her group, but that hardly ever satified her. Many of those guys had no experience with girls whatsoever, as to be anyone in the hall you had to be a warrior of Beorn. The girls of their age went with them, not the boys. And there were those boys that slept with some of the housecarls, of whom some preferred men and youngsters. So the guys that went after the girls that went after the men dit not get lots of practise and Frey was, well, not so picky. She had tried many of them but none had impressed her thus far. Being innately impatient, she discovered that it was very hard to be submissive with boys her age, fumbling and trying. Submission to them felt embarrassing, and being in control of them didn’t terribly interest her either.

It just felt it was more natural for her that way, with people of her age. Women were more to her liking, and usually she preferred to be the top too. But that did not remove the feeling that she was missing out something with men. But the housecarls hardly looked at her. For their companions they preferred fair-haired and dainty maidens of the North, not tomboyish short-hairs like her. Only Eormengils took time for her, but they were more like a mentor and a pupil.

Beorn stroked his beard and sighed deeply. He looked at her. There was hunger in his eyes, a hunger that did not in the first place aim at the piece of honey-cake in her pack. Frey suddenly became aware that they were alone in the woods, but she did not feel fear like with the bear. In the shape of a human, Beorn did not frighten anyone of his friends. Frey trusted him and she knew he would never harm her. But he was the chief, as she said, and he could decide to call in his privileges. He was still naked in front of her, but somehow she felt more defenceless. She was realistic enough to know that she was no match for his brawn.

“I am sorry to hear that. My men are such oafs sometimes. You should find a man that can show you something different.”

Frey chuckled. “Like you perhaps?” she said bluntly. Neither she nor Beorn had much skill in subtle flirting. The wild impulses both of them felt did not need much words or negotiation.

“Come here, lass,” he said. “It’s time you learned. I’ll fuck you so well you’ll be dreaming about it for nights.”

It did not take long then for Beorn to strip Frey’s clothes off. His gestures were rough, without ceremony or delicacy. Frey felt his lust. Close to him, to his naked body, his aura enveloped her entirely. It protected her, drew her further in. It made her docile, happy to serve him only. His lust was enough to fan her own hunger.

She did not object to being stripped. Neither to being touched by his big hands, groping like hungry bear paws for honey. Before she realized, she was on her knees in the dry needles before him. He held her head in his big hands, making sure that she would not be bothered by the outside world, putting her mind on one task only. But even with her best efforts and her big mouth, with Beorn’s endowment, she didn’t not get very far. Spittle fell vainly into the needles between her knees.

Beorn sighed, but decided not to push it. He had a feeling that Frey would not rest until she could take him. He hated it to force people, but he also hated it to be careful. This one would learn, later. She had promise. But now she had to learn something else. If he took her now, she’d be back as much as he wanted.

And he was right. Beorn was not like the eager youngsters of the hall, who wanted to show off but did not have the experience to back it up. He was Beorn. Hundreds of pounds of muscle and the stamina of a bear to keep up the pace for ages.

Frey had always fantasized about big cocks, even when she was still a virgin. As a child, it had made her curious, and the more curious she became, the bigger the object of her curiosity became. Perhaps it had something to do with being an orphan. Perhaps it was something that belonged to her unknown ancestry. But whatever it was, it sat deep within her brain, in that small, shadowed place beyond fear and lust, coming out only in the shifting contours of sexual fantasy.

Even when her first experiences with her peers ended in disappointment, she was not deterred from fantasizing about dicks. But before she saw Beorn naked, and then when she saw his erection, she believed that such specimen belonged firmly in the realm of her perverse imagination.

She realized too, that she would not often find a cock like this. Although she was not particularly attracted to Beorn, she was immediately infatuated with his manhood. She knew she only had one chance. One chance to experience it, to feel it, to live her fantasy. One chance to impress him and make him come back for seconds. She let go of her pride and offered herself entirely to the bear-man.

When he gently but confidently turned her around in the needles, she mewled and all the strength and willpower left her limbs. When he took her, she begged him for more, to drive the entire length into her outsized body, for the delirious ecstasy to sweep her up. It hurt her, but the feeling of fullness was better, better than she had ever dared to fantasize. She drove him on, gritting her teeth and swallowing her fear, until his plump balls squeezed against her clit, her womb pushed probably halfway her guts. Beorn’s bear-like laughter rolled. With one hand, he was pinning her down, his other hand was grabbing her hair and holding her head.

But she had gravely underestimated it. She shouted loudly for minutes first, chasing away all the little forest animals that had been left after Beorn’s roars. Then she moaned and panted until she was hoarse, punctured with delirious giggles. Finally only drool came out of her mouth, like a horse on the verge of collapse after an exhausting race. But she kept going. Her leg twitched violently as her pussy clinged and wrung around his manhood. She came more than she cared to count. For good measure, Beorn didn’t stop at her pussy. She protested only weakly when he withdrew and wrung his immense shaft into her butt.

She was a wet, sweaty mess when he finished. The sun was high in the sky, filtering through the canopies of the pines. A big smile was on Frey's face. Her fantasy was amply fulfilled. For the rest of her life, she would chase that feeling.

*

Beorn sighed, satisfied. This cub would be back, he thought. She wasn’t bad. Sooner or later, he’d give her to one of his housecarls. Or perhaps there was more to her than that, and she was serious about being a warrior. When that time came he'd make that judgement. He donned his simple clothing again, and looked at her. Her skin was covered in broken needles and little branches. Although a mess now, she looked strong. Give or take a few years, she would have a muscled, athletic body, and she would easily match many of his housecarls in a running or sparring match.

He buckled his belt, and took his thick fur cloak from the ground. With a gentle gesture, he draped it over Freydis’ bare body. The days of Wintrufulliths were cold already. Winter could come early in Wilderland, but the summer had been soft. Though the sun shone, it was not the time of year to lay naked on the ground.

Nobody called Beorn a king, but it was clear to all that he was. Like the bear that is the king of the mountains, Beorn was the most lordly person for miles in either direction from the Carrock, despite his uncouth personality. Dominant, without being predatory; kind, without being weak; trustworthy, without being predictable. Protective, without being possessive.

Beorn was old. Nobody knew, in fact, how old. He looked like he was in the prime of his middle years, but like his size, his age was also measured by another scale than that of the other Men of the North. He never talked about anyone about his kind, and his real age was a secret. Perhaps he was a hundred years or older. Perhaps he was only forty or fifty. But even for a shape-shifter, whatever the details of that race were, he was no longer among the youngest. There were grey hairs in his wild hair and beard, and his hands were coarse and scarred by years of struggle and hard life. Beorn had lived long and had experienced much. Positive experiences but also negative experiences. That had taught him a lot.

Yet few considered his wisdom proportional with his strength, except those that knew him very well (like his old friend Eormengils, or the visiting Wizards Gandalf and Radagast and other stranger visitors). That was because Beorn, unlike many others, was withdrawn. The years had quieted him, but he had never been the most open. That had not changed now that he hosted other people in his house. To make matters worse, he had little patience for the impulsiveness of youngsters like Frey. Simpler emotions like anger of laughter were easier for him to express, but not the sorrows or gladnesses that come with experience. Few really understood him, and he took little effort to change that. His reputation for wildness and fierceness among the other people of Wilderland was something that came from that. He had seen dark things, victories and defeats, but Beorn had very clear lines that he never crossed.

Now as he was the chief, the ‘king’ as it were, he finally saw some rewards for that life of hardship. Despite that, he still remained humble and simple, and a kind of dignified pride was foreign to him. In this too, he seemed more like the quiet and solitary bears rather than the regal lions or Eagles that usually served as symbols of royal houses. For him, someone like Frey was not so much of a _reward_ as a _ward_ , someone that was now part of his household. Not an asset but someone in his custody.

At long last, Freydis crawled up from the needles and pulled her pants up. She sat with Beorn on the rocky ridge. Both of them were ravenous, and they shared Frey’s piece of honey-cake. It was only a meagre loaf after sharing it, but honey-cakes were very filling and nourishing. Beorn stared at the small slice between his thumb and index finger.

“One day I’ll go on an adventure and I’ll return as a hero,” Frey said decisively. Beorn’s heavy cloak weighed on her shoulders. “Middle-Earth needs heroes to combat the Darkness. There will always be people in need of a hero. I will be one.”

Beorn looked her over as he took a small bite of honey-cake, chewing very slowly. Too much cinnamon in this one, he thought. It overpowers the flavour of the late summer flower honey. But the ginger was nice and tangy.

“Real heroes are not too eager for glory, young Frey,” he finally said. “Nor too hasty to boast. You need to be a bit older before you can become anything. Enjoy your time as a youngster for now – it’s the best time of your life.”

Frey had heard that many times before, and she sighed. She had hoped that Beorn would think differently. “Why?” she said contrariously.

“Because you need to have a fair share of years before you know exactly what that darkness means,” Beorn said calmly. “You have not seen danger. You have not seen the Shadow or its works.” He sighed again. He had seen it many times. Not only orc-work, but also the gnawing tooth of time. With his own eyes he had seen how terrible it was when all the wealth of the world lies waste. When everything goes to ruin and decay, like in so many places already. Walls, swept by wind and frost, burnt halls, empty houses. The ground was full of graves, barrow over barrow of those that once walked and sat in the vales in might and splendour. Of Beorn’s own kind he was the only one left. His kin was forgotten, his homeland was lost. The darkness works in many other ways than just goblins, he thought. Frey had not seen anything. Real heroes were not reckless like that.

“It’s not just about fighting, you know,” he said, at a loss for words. Those deep melancholic sentiments were impossible for him to express in human words. “I know you’re eager to fight. But to oppose the Shadow you’ll need to be more than a fighter,” he said sternly. Then he remained quiet for a while, while Frey looked at him.

“You need to know yourself,” he concluded with a kind tone. “Shadow is in all of us. It is a grim struggle.”

Frey nodded. “But I will not lose hope,” she said.

“You will, if you lose your head in vain promises and boasts,” Beorn said, at which Frey looked rather vexed. She had no patience for lessons of carefulness and that kind of wisdom.

“You don’t know what you will get into. What struggle and how hard it will be. You don’t know how tough adversity is until you’re facing it.”

“But you were once young too,” Freydis said disappointed. “You were once a lone hero. The Goblins feared you.” She looked up at the big man sitting next to her. Even as he was slumping, she did not even reach up to his shoulders.

“What happened to the young bear warrior of the Misty Mountains?” she said bitterly, “The Berserker that took the fight to them rather than hiding on a farm making cakes?”

Beorn sighed. When he was younger, he was indeed a lonely warrior like Frey said. Then, he dreamed of dark vengeance, of vanquishing the goblins of his old homeland in the mountains. He dreamed of returning, of performing heroic deeds, like her now. But his people were gone now. Like the snow on the mountain meadows of his youth. There is nothing more in that dream. Beorn remained in the dale of the Carrock, caring for his beasts alone and even making friends. Now he has a lot more to fight for. The orphans and exiles living in his hall now, his housecarls and younglings, they were his family. He had his own folk to protect. And paradoxically, he now realized that in order to protect, it was sometimes better not to fight.

Being a hero now is about protecting others. Freydis and the other young wolves of the hall did not realize that yet. They will, eventually. They only had to hold their station in the shadow of the Carrock and they would thwart the Darkness. If they remained stalwart, they would keep the Old Ford free so that others might live and travel in peace. For that, they needed to band together, not go out roving alone. Sometimes, offence was not the best defence.

He shrugged, looking more tired than ever. “I guess I became old,” he said with a wry smile.

Indignation left Frey’s face and she grinned.

“But not old enough to fuck a teenager now and then?”

“You’re here because you’re not a child anymore, Frey. You’re here to learn, and I’m here to teach you.”

Frey chuckled and raised an eyebrow.

“Except that you never listen,” Beorn added when he saw her face. “Like when I tell you not to play hero.”

“I would if only all your lessons were as interesting as this morning’s,” she replied with a quick tongue.

Beorn laughed loudly and smashed her back (nearly tipping her off the rock).

“You younglings will be the death of me one day! You and Hwelptheow! You’re worse than Dwarves. I did not remember having so many grey hairs when I lived alone!”

They finished up and left the pine forest. In a small vale, they found a mountain stream and washed their tired and dirty faces. Frey did not see the Eagles that day, but she did not leave the mountains without another good story to tell.

*

“What were you telling to them?” Tigraxauda asked Frey when they were walking back to her wagon in the middle of the night. “They were hanging on your lips.”

“They asked me about Beorn, so I just told them about him.”

“Really? The bear shape-shifter?” Tigraxauda said, curiously. “What did you tell about him?”

Frey smiled mysteriously and shrugged.

“You wouldn’t understand, Tiger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's deliberately unclear whether Freydis told the entire story or left the dirty bits out, and whether it even really happened or if it was one of her fantasies. She's probably the most unreliable of unreliable narrators.
> 
> This chapter is a bit out of proportion with other, smaller chapters but that's because I welded a few loose vignettes together into a rather long flashback. There's a lot more in this chapter to explore, like Beorn's ring, his betrothal and more, but unless anybody is particularly interested I won't burden the story with that for now. 
> 
> Perhaps I can write that as a reward for whoever can point out the well-known Old English poem paraphrased in the last part of the chapter. A cultural reference to mitigate the shameless smut that precedes it...


	17. A few days before Eostre

# A Few Days Before Easter

_The Royal Wagon  
Austramonth, T.A. 2946_

Zixaïs’ hand was keeping the curtain open, just slightly, enough for her dark eyes to look outside. It was a beautiful day, and the sun shone through the lace curtains, casting a patterned, shifting net on her already patterned skin. Today, she had drawn intricate flowers of red and green henna and yellow ochre, as it was the last day of winter, the first night of Spring. Her eyes were following Freydis, as she was doing chores outside, chopping woodblocks for the fire tonight. She left the window when Tigraxauda entered the wagon. She kicked off her loafers and sat down on the bed, summoning a little stool from a low cupboard for Tigraxauda.

“Yes, Captain,” she said. “I am listening.”

Tigraxauda did not sit down immediately. She walked to the window and looked out, unknowingly taking the same position and posture of Zixaïs, moments earlier. Her eyes absent-mindedly ran over Frey’s heaving body as she swung the axe.

“There’s a smoke plume to the south-west,” she said. “I have just returned from scouting. It’s far, on the other side of the river. Probably more than a few day’s journey’s from here.”

Zixaïs frowned. “Orcs are on the other bank. Perhaps they have attacked someone.”

“It’s possible,” Tigraxauda said. “The smoke arose only this morning, so the fire must have been started at night.”

“Is anybody living there?”

Tigraxauda remained silent, walking up to the stool. She sat down with her side to the princess, wide-legged and putting her elbows on her knees. She started rubbing her tired fingers. She still wore her armour. Tigraxauda had been up longer than anybody else in the camp.

“I don’t know with certainty. The other bank is unknown territory. Perhaps a homestead of the Northmen. It came from the slopes of the Mountains.”

Zixaïs nodded. It was worrisome news, but perhaps not immediately their concern. Since they lost Takhmaspa and Targitaos, they knew that the other side was menaced by the orcs.

“Is there an immediate concern for the safety of the camp?” She asked.

“It’s far away from here, and isolated. It does not look like there have been other fires. I have riders watching the banks of the river, and everything is quiet. I would say no. There is no concern for the camp at this moment.”

The truth was that it was a good place to camp, and both of them were reluctant to abandon it. As long as the orcs stayed on the other bank, they were safe. That bank was half a day on horseback from the camp – far enough to be safe. There was good grass and many edible plants at hand in the vales. There was a stream and a clear spring nearby. The horses could roam and they could prepare for a good summer. In these meadows the tribe bothered elf nor man. Tigraxauda wanted to remain there for the summer and Zixaïs agreed with her. When the winter came, they might have to move closer to the south, or perhaps go down into the valleys where the winter was softer. If Tigraxauda said that they were safe as long as they were watchful, Zixaïs was more than relieved.

Zixaïs stood up and laid her hands on Tigraxauda’s strong shoulder. With a delicate gesture, she started undoing the knot of the lace that tied the two shells of her scaled armour together. It opened like the prickly hull of a chestnut and Zixaïs started tugging it off her champion.

“Tomorrow is Easter. Enjoy tonight, for once. Is there anyone that can do the watch tonight?”

Tigraxauda looked up with tired eyes.

“I guess I can get Súragaitha and Rúxsana to keep an eye on the bank. They have keen eyes at night.”

“Good. Then tonight, after the storytelling and the meal, you sleep here. Your princess wants you to keep her company.”

Tigraxauda nodded as she allowed the armour to be slipped over her head.

“Will you do divination?”

“If you want me to,” Zixaïs said. She led Tigraxauda to the bed, removing more of her clothes and laying her on her stomach. The warrior sighed. There were sore spots where the armour had pushed into her sides. Zixaïs shed her caftan and climbed into the bed too, sitting astride Tigraxauda’s rear like a rider. She oiled her hands and started massaging the warrior’s shoulders. Tigraxauda softly moaned as the princess’ dextrous hands removed the stress build-up. They remained silent, and Zixaïs enjoyed touching the oiled, warm skin and kneading out the knots. Though battered, Tigraxauda had impressive muscles, and Zixaïs loved caring for them, grooming her captain like a prize horse. Even laying down like a sleeping deer, Zixaïs felt her soft power and felt protected by her presence. She was very fond of her only warrior, and she loved making her feel good.

She had implored Tigraxauda not to join the scouting ride after she had had a premonition about it. The three of them were adamant that at least two had to go. It was too dangerous for one to go alone – which unfortunately proved to be an underestimation. Tigraxauda wanted to go at first, but Zixaïs went just short of ordering her to stay. Although she missed the other two warriors (more because her tribe depended on them) she was very thankful for her ancestors to have sent her that premonition. Tigraxauda was still here.

Zixaïs had grown up with Tigraxauda. For as long as she remembered, the warrior had been there to care for her. Where she only vaguely remembered her parents, Tigraxauda had always stood out in her memories as the person that protected her. As a child, she had been as close as her wet nurses. As she grew up, Tigraxauda became her bodyguard and her trainer. She had always been fond of her. But for her part, the warrior always kept a certain distance. Although they were comfortable with each other’s presence both in public and in private, she always kept treating her as a royal and her de jure leader, never as her child. Zixaïs was unsure whether Tigraxauda was a parent figure for her, a big sister she never had, or a lover. But she knew that she was always there, loyal as a hound, and that she would always be there for her.

Massaging her was something she sometimes did, in the rare moments when Tigraxauda was relaxed. She loved taking care of her and taking away her pain. She loved giving her pleasure too. Tigraxauda was different in those moments, softer and kinder. It was a pity that so few people could see her like that. But she appreciated also how strong she was. Without her, the little tribe would surely have been doomed much earlier. She loved thanking Tigraxauda for all the efforts that she did. If she were not a royal, she would have begged to be given to the warrior as reward or mate.

She knew exactly what to do and where to rub to take away the Tigraxauda’s stress and loosen her shoulders. After all, she had learned it from her. Now, it was her turn to indulge. Her soft sighs told the princess that she was.

Zixaïs stooped over, burying her nose in Tigraxauda’s dark hair. She inhaled deeply, waking Tigraxauda from her drowsy indulgence. She opened one eye curiously and looked at the princess sideways.

“Well, I don’t have you so often naked in my bed, right?” Zixaïs said with a sultry voice. Tigraxauda turned over on her back, stretching her chiselled abs and exposing her impressive breasts. She looked up lazily at her ward.

Zixaïs smiled seductively and followed the shape of Tigraxauda’s abs with a painted finger, the dark forms of the tattoos on her skin. She stroked her breasts and bent down to suck her nipples, nibbling and biting gently. Tigraxauda’s hands found her head and ran her fingers through her locks, making her even more crazy to continue. Her painted hands ran down the heaving body and started fingering Tigraxauda, first soft, then vigorously. Soon, Zixaïs was burying her flushed face in Tigraxauda’s loins, guided by her gentle but resolute hands.

Down there, she continued her self-imposed task to relax Tigraxauda and reward her with pleasure. But the woman was a stern mistress. Before long Zixaïs’ face was glued to her pussy, unable to get out even if she had wanted that. Strong thighs pinned her down as she licked the warrior into an intense orgasm.

After Tigraxauda had caught her breath, she returned the favour, fingering her princess expertly. She had long and slender fingers, but strong from drawing the bow and practising the sword-art. Though Tigraxauda was a warrior, Zixaïs felt like a musical instrument in her hands. Her warm mouth kissed her body and bit softly in her neck. Zixaïs moaned.

*

She curled up in the embrace of the warrior woman. Both of them were naked. They were thinking about the orcs on the other bank, the state of the camp and the prisoner.

“I don’t know,” Zixaïs mused. “She seems so _rough_. Like she was a boy or something. Why is she like that?”

“In her people, women can’t be warriors,” Tigraxauda explained.

“Really? And she wants to be a warrior? What for?” Zixaïs didn’t know whether it was more surprising for her that women couldn’t be warriors among the straw-heads, or that someone would want to be a warrior when they didn’t have to. She frowned.

Tigraxauda shrugged. “Ask her.”

“She looks at me like a hungry animal.”

The warrior woman drew her body up slowly, and raised an eyebrow at the curled-up princess.

“She looks at you how?” she said.

“I think she likes me.”

Tigraxauda got up from the bed and flexed her shoulders, like a watchful animal roused from sleep.

“I’ll talk to her,” she said decisively, reaching for her shoes. She sounded serious. When she sensed that someone had harmed her girl or looked at her the wrong way, she was like that. Not possessively. The princess was not hers. She was the dutiful bodyguard of the royal, and although Zixaïs was much less vulnerable than Tigraxauda remembered, she would always try to protect her.

“No, please,” Zixaïs said. “It’s fine. She isn’t harming me. And she’s helping the tribe.”

Tigraxauda crossed her arms. “She’s still a prisoner. There are lines she shouldn’t cross. And if she looks at you in the wrong way...”

“You’re jealous.” Zixaïs said with a smirk.

Tigraxauda sighed, rolling her eyes. “I am not. I just don’t trust her. I have to keep an eye on her. Keeping a prisoner here is dangerous.”

“Then let her go,” Zixaïs said.

Tigraxauda remained silent for a while while donning her clothes. Zixaïs helped her with the lace of her armor, confirming that it was not too tight.

“I’m sure that would spell even more trouble,” the warrior said finally, but it was a weak justification. Zixaïs smirked again.

“Alright,” she said with a shrug and a smile. “If you say so, then she can stay.”

Tigraxauda looked at her darkly.

“I’ll go keep an eye on that smoke plume,” she muttered, taking her bow and going out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Today's chapter sheds a little bit more light on the relationship between these two characters. 
> 
> There will be more action in the next chapters. Events will rudely disturb the triangle relationship that is gently forming between Frey, Zixaïs and Tigraxauda.


	18. Austro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter a new element into the game. The Wainspeople are not the only humans living in the Northern Vales of the Anduin...

# Austro

_Last days of Austromonth, T.A. 2946_

The next day, news was brought into the camp by Tigraxauda’s sentinels. A group of people had crossed the Anduin from the west and had set up camp in one of the valleys below them. They were building a wooden house there, not a day’s journey away from them. The newcomers had not seen the Wainspeople camp above them, and for the moment the tribe stayed put. The herders had plenty of rich meadows to the north and east to keep the cattle happy without going near that valley. Tigraxauda advised the tribespeople to keep their heads down. She kept an eye on the newcomers with her riders, sneaking as close as they dared without being seen.

But their subterfuge did not last long. A few days later, riders of the other people found out about the Wainspeople scouts. The nomads confronted them. It was a tense meeting, arrows and spears aimed at each other and harsh words were spoken. Things almost got out of hand. Tigraxauda succeeded in bringing the meeting to a calm end, but afterwards, the camp buzzed with the news. The new people had crossed the Anduin after their homestead on the other side had been attacked by orcs. Like Beorn, they were only a small company, a few connected households, not a whole tribe. They were less numerous than the people Frey stayed with, but they belonged to a loose federation of Northmen that was much bigger. They were also better armed, and many housecarls were among them. Their warriors rode big, tall horses and carried spears and helmets. They had much experience in skirmishing with goblins in the Mountains. Even so, they could not defeat the orcs when they launched a full-scale attack at night, when they were vulnerable. In the hall-burning, they had lost many warriors and innocents. The remnant only escaped because of the valour of the rearguard, who fell in a shield wall to protect the column of refugees crossing the Anduin. Even so, they considered these lands theirs. They spoke harsh words, claiming that this portion of the Valley, both east and west of the River, belonged to their tribe since ancient times. They called Tigraxauda’s riders intruders, even though they had been here first. They mistrusted them, because they were lesser men, gypsies and known thieves of horses. They hated them because, centuries ago, their forefathers had fought against the forefathers of the nomads, the Wainriders, and the People of Rhovanion had a long memory. But some suspected that they were fearful that they would be taken advantage of, now that they were weak and homeless. That is why they spoke so boldly, and were quicker to shake spears and shields than hands. A cornered dog barks the loudest. But the nomads were ill disposed to just leaving the meadows they had found empty, especially now that the other bank was overrun by orcs and wolves had menaced their previous campsite. So during those dire moments, both groups had enough reason to dislike each other, and the tension was high. Tigraxauda forbade the herders to bring their flock near that valley, and she herself often sat watch on a high ridge. Frey, who had snuck out to see the newcomers for herself, saw her sitting there. Lost in thoughts, she watched and listened to the sounds of felling timber, sawing and hammering.

Tensions rose even higher when a stallion in heat broke out of the pens of the Northmen and was drawn to one of the higher valleys, where the mares of the wagon-riders stayed. Tigraxauda and the herders were furious, and rode down with arrows knocked on their horn bows. The riders of the homestead, however, accused them of stealing the stallion for breeding, and demanded they brought it back. Frey, impulsively put on a felt hat to disguise herself, mounted Gawandja, rode down to the quarrelsome tribesmen and hid among them. Harsh words were spoken, and both sides demanded that the other left the lands. Tensions ran higher when the herders started drawing their bows and javelins were raised on the other side. Tall and domineering, Tigraxauda rode between them like a vengeful Valkyrie, her horse snorting and thumping on the grass impatiently. Her naked anger was barely held in check now. She was unlike Freydis had ever seen her, a wronged Amazon Queen thirsting for vengeance, beautiful and powerful like lightning. A massacre was only a blink of an eye away. Frey threw down her felt cap and rode in between both groups, startling both in equal measure. She called out her name and who she was, raising her hands to calm everyone down. Tigraxauda’s eyes inflamed at her prisoner’s insolence. The Northmen demanded to know who she was and how she got there.

“I am of the Household of Beorn, who lives near the Carrock in the south,” she said.

“Beorn? The Skinchanger?” the leader of the men said. “Why are you among these gypsies? Are you a prisoner of theirs?”

“I am here of my own account,” Frey lied. “I am their... guest!”

“Are you related to them? You do not look like most Beornings I have seen.”

Frey sighed. “My eyes are blue like yours, Horse-man. And I speak your language without accent. Beorn is my lord and I have many friends in his house.” Bonds of loyalty and lordship were strong in the blood of the Northmen, and they were more important even than kinship. They understood her words intuitively, and trusted them. If she was one of Beorn’s wards, they were of the same people. The warriors settled down somewhat, and weapons were lowered. The men of the valley looked at her curiously, whispering to each other.

“Is it true that he can change into a bear? And that he keeps the Ford of the Carrock clear of orcs and goblins?” they asked.

“Yes, it is true. He and his housecarls keep the roads free. There’s no orcs anymore below the rapids south of here.”

They explained to her that they had lost their home beyond the river in a surprise night-raid by orcs. That is why they searched for a better place on the east bank.

“Look,” Freydis said to them, pointing at Tigraxauda’s riders. “These are a travelling people. Herdsmen. Pastoralists. They move from pasture to pasture, not staying here or there longer than a season. Surely there’s grass enough for everyone?” she asked. “They were looking to cross over the River to the west, but they too lost warriors when orcs attacked their scouts. You can call them lesser men, but I know they are strong too, and they are Free. There is no evil among them, regardless of whom they are descended. The only evil here is the orcs, and they are our mutual enemy.”

Some of the men nodded, and the leader scowled, stroking his gold-and-silver beard. She turned to the nomads.

“Herdsmen! I lived and worked among you for weeks now. We have shared food and you have shown me your legends and stories. These people and I – we’re related. Like you, they have no homeland any more. They are on the run for orcs, who have destroyed their house and fields. They have lost people, killed and taken captive. Their flock has been scattered and taken by the orcs. These are not enemies. They’re people who need help!” She looked at Tigraxauda, who appeared emotionless, listening in silence.

Frey continued: “We should combine our strength, and drive off the orcs! Only then your flock will be safe!” She rode up to Tigraxauda to speak with her.

“What are you up to, Frey?” she said.

“You can’t cross the Anduin if there’s an orc band on the other side. If you still think I invented them to steal your horse, look at these people. Have they also invented orcs? A warband has come down from the mountains to chase away all humans living here. Please listen – this is our opportunity to learn more about your two friends who were scouting. The goblins took some of these people captive when they attacked their homestead. Maybe they’ll also have Targitaos or Takhmaspa. At any rate, we have to help them now – the prisoners won’t stay alive forever in the clutches of those evil creatures.”

Tigraxauda mulled over this for a moment. “We should have promises first. I won’t be double-crossed by these treacherous settled people.” She dismounted and hung her bow and arrows along her saddle.

“You, leader of the River-men. I am Tigraxauda. Let’s talk.”

The man with the yellow beard also dismounted. He gave his spear and shield to a companion, and unclasped his helmet. It was a simple helmet, with a horse plume streaming from the top.

“My name is Wingureiks.”

They sat down cross-legged in the middle of the plain, bracketed by the warriors of both sides. They agreed that the settlement that Wingureiks’ people were building could stay, as it was a good place. After the summer, Tigraxauda’s group would move anyway. To help them through the winter, Tigraxauda offered them some of their food. In return, the tribe of Wingureiks would henceforth allow Tigraxauda’s group to pass through their lands unbothered. They also agreed to join forces to drive the orcs back into the mountains. Alone, they made no chance. Together, they could take on the orcs, if they were cunning. They would free the prisoners and captive horses. If there was other treasure, they would share it. They sealed the alliance with a grim handshake and set about to create a plan to mislead the orcs.

That plan involved placing a bait. Nobody was keen on losing any more of the tribe, so the bait should ideally be someone unconnected to either of the tribes. A volunteer, perhaps. Someone with no small amount of courage, who could stand their own in the most crucial link of the plan. Frey rolled her eyes.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”


	19. The Orgy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Explicit Sexual Content**
> 
> Still with me? Okay! I decided to upload some shameless orgy fun to keep all of your attention! <3 Featuring our favourite Beorning cub and a certain Amazon Queen.

# The Orgy

_Last days of Austromonth, T.A. 2946_

In the course of the following days, plans were made and weapons were sharpened. Tigraxauda and Wingureiks met a few more times on the grass in between the settlements. They were often alone, and spoke long evenings, making clear what would be each other’s tasks. In the Wainspeople camp, arrows were fletched and horses were groomed. The people who would participate in the ambush were chosen. Tigraxauda went over all the steps with them, with an exceptional eye for detail and a big margin for error. She hardly rested and went over every part of the plan at least three times, checking horses, weapons, people. More than once did she turn down a horse on a gut feeling, or chose a less-frayed bowstring or a straighter arrow. She was resolved not to lose anyone again.

The night before the raid, Frey partook in another one of the Wainspeople’s strange customs. This one originated in the distant past, perhaps even from the time of the Wainriders. To reward the warriors that would take part in a particularly hazardous operation, the tribe offered them a special privilege: one night with anyone in the camp of their choosing. The warrior could choose any girl for a night of love-making, and a strong taboo rested on refusal. Usually though, the women were eager to serve the tribe’s champions. It was not different now that the warrior it was Tigraxauda.

Some say that this custom arose to incentivize the youngsters that would sacrifice their lives for the tribe, giving them one night where their wishes were granted, one night of hedonistic pleasure. A prize for the lethal risk they took, so to say. Others say that it brought them the luck and energy that they would need in the upcoming battle. Still others maintained that the favour of the ancestor spirits rested on those who would risk their lives for the tribe, and that their offspring would be especially blessed if they begot it during a night like these. Perhaps all of these reasons were right. With Tigraxauda, it was hard to tell how much of it was out of respect for tradition and how much was hedonistic self-assertion.

For the first time, Frey was taken along with the other warriors to one of their meeting places, a watchful hill, crowned with linden and hazel trees not far from the camp-place. Even in the darkness, they could oversee the circle of wagons and even the valley below. In the distance, lights could be seen. Perhaps the people of Austro performed similar rituals around their fires that night.

The hill might once have been the site of a watchtower or another building, because on the top of it there were a circular ditch and a high bank behind. Although thickets of hazelwood had long taken the place of a palisade, the place still felt like a sanctuary of watchfulness. Frey had to push the thick bushes aside and squeeze past the tree trunks to reach the inner circle. In the middle of the hill beyond the dyke the soil was flat and not thirty yards across. Save for ferns, grass and some bushes, it was empty and open. Overhead, the stars and moon twinkled.

The Wainriders had placed torches around the circle and had lighted a campfire in the middle. Tigraxauda and all her rider pupils were there, the ones that were going to partake in the raid. Frey saw that it was mostly the younger generation. The other riders were guarding the camp. Still others preferred a night of rest before the ambush while those who had families chose to stay with them instead of an orgy with the youngsters. Tigraxauda had also chosen some of the younger girls of the tribe, who did not ride with her, to join her and her prospective warriors in the feast. They were more than willing as it was considered an honour to be chosen, both in the eyes of the ancestors and in the eyes of the warrioress Tigraxauda. There was a somewhat nervous, conspirational atmosphere, already a little bit sultry in the warm glare of the fires. They sat on the ground or huddled close to each other, whispering with low voices and casting glances at each other. Some were giggling or laughing. A few looked up at Frey when she arrived.

Tigraxauda was sitting in the middle. She was sitting on the only wood block in the clearing. She was naked from the chest up. Black tattoos of a tiger, a griffin and other animals shone dimly as the fire’s glare gleamed on her oiled skin. A long dragon encircled her right arm. Her bossom heaved softly, her sensuous breasts contrasting with her iron stomach and shoulders. Two swooning girls were sitting on both her sides, crawling on her arms and into her lap. Behind her, Súragaitha stood, running her fingers through Tigraxauda’s loose hair and pleating her braids. She was absorbed by her fine labour. Quietly indulging in their efforts, Tigraxauda kept her dark eyes nevertheless fixed on Frey as she stepped into the circle.

Although naked, she looked completely in control of the situation. Her eyes looked at Frey, as if they implied the message: ‘I’m watching you. You are here only because I give you a chance. Make no mistake. Not tonight, not tomorrow night.’ Frey did not feel as much at ease as she was when they were together alone.

But she did not have problems with the others. Nor did she have problems to be naked in front of them. Jealous of the admiration Tigraxauda received and wishing to equal her self-confidence, Frey was certainly not the last one to strip. Her body was young, strong and she knew people liked it. Soon, a string of eager young men and women followed her around and they were crawling and cavorting around the fire.

It started with games and exploring touches, but everyone knew where it was going. Ere long, all of them were scattered around the campfire in various states of undress and in various states of foreplay. Giggling and laughter resounded, and here and there somebody moaned. Frey crawled from one group to the next trio, kissing and fondling more people than she could count on both hands. Someone started fingering her while she was making out with Akhsartag. Akhsartag was one of those that had invited her into the orgy. She pulled his hair and bit his neck. He melted quickly under her curious hands. She straddled him like a hungry predator, nibbling and kissing his chest. His wrists were clutched in the grass. Someone stroked her chest and neck and whispered encouragements in her ear. Another person whispered humiliations in her ear, pulling her hair. Her hands reached out needily, fingering and jerking off whoever was closest as she vigorously rode Akhsartag’s hips. His dick was squeezed against her pussy, she didn’t care to sheathe it. She laughed as he came, a laugh chortled because of the dick in her mouth. Other bodies arrived, needy and aggressive, pinning her down on her friend. Unable to crawl out from underneath them, Akhsartag remained underneath her, writhing shamefully in his own semen. The newcomers were more assertive, and the next hour or so had Frey trying to fend them off, fighting for dominance. But she was outnumbered, and against the laughing riders she did not have the authority of Tigraxauda. But her pride was not something that was easily cast aside. After an hour of exhausting fight-fucking they all collapsed next to a grinning Akhsartag. He had been amply satisfied to witness Frey fight, lose and be owned by his comrades up close. Her dumbstruck expression as they finally found their way into her ass was something he would never forget.

Frey did not only have defeats that night. One of the girls that Tigraxauda had brought had been eyeing her for a while, blushing while she was giggling. Frey, in a vain mood and flattered by the attention, went to her. She even indulged in a small conversation before she helped the girl out of her clothes and started kissing her. Before long, they where fingering each other. From there it didn’t take much for Frey, still a bit addled by the gang-bang, to take it a few steps further.

Even if she was surrounded by a slew of young women intent on pleasing her as best as they could, Tigraxauda was watching Frey intently. There was caution in her dark eyes, like a watchful herd dog keeping an eye on the young wolf prowling at the edge of the flock. In many ways she was like one, and Frey did not come closer nor did she try to steal one of Tigraxauda's girls. She seemed to respect the predominance of the older warrior, something which was felt by all present. Seated like an amazon queen on her spartan throne Tigraxauda never lost sight of Frey, no matter how deeply buried under a pile of writhing bodies she was. And Frey always felt her smouldering look fixed on her naked body. This feeling changed her. Instead of a simple orgy of self-serving hedonism, she perversely tried to impress Tigraxauda, or even outdo the small harem that crawled over her lap and shoulders. Others sensed this primal fight for attention of the pack's female alpha too. Because Freydis was not protected by the respect that the wainspeople had for their leader, she was fair game for their rather fierce displays of sexual prowess.  
Frey was a strong woman, with a will as strong as her limbs, but she was not unbent. She tried to stay on top as much as she could, but against such onslaught of animals in heat she was hardly always successful. But she laughed nonetheless, whether she was on top or below the pile. Apparently she enjoyed the power game in itself rather than the absolute dominance. She thought that she turned on Tigraxauda whether she won or lost. No matter how badly her body got stretched, bruised and tattered, she watched on with interest. No matter how preternaturally powerful her sweating body looked, her hair that clung to her forehead, her concentrated brow and her determined smirk, Tigraxauda was looking at her with watchful eyes.  
Everything she did became a show for her. She became an animal in heat, trying to impress the female.  
  
Like sparring wolves, they rolled around the fire, yapping and panting on all fours or prone, getting up only to crawl to another partner. T watched on, unperturbed by the displays of dominance or submission and power games in front of her. An impartial, unmoved arbiter, the only law in a lawless orgy. A decadent queen of the Easterlings, presiding over her harem palace between the hazel hedges. An androgynous demon enslaving her acolytes with dark looks instead of chains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to posting regularly! The next bit with the ambush is coming in a few days. Another action scene but this time no shameless smut (awwww!).


	20. The Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this piece Freydis finally has a chance to prove herself - if she plays it well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I think that while my stories have too much smut to be decent fanfiction (the kind that I would let my friends read). But then they also have not enough of it to be downright explicit erotic lit. Most stories I read are either on one or the other end of the scale. I'm not sure where I am exactly, but I'm considering changing my rating to Explicit instead of Mature. But not for this chapter. For now, let's play that Rohirrim theme we all know and love and enjoy a bit of heroic action. 
> 
> The only content warning here is for mild violence.

# The Ambush

_West Bank of the Anduin  
Austromonth, T.A. 2946_

The next day, Frey was sitting on the threshold of a small, old wagon. It was just past dusk, and she had lit a campfire in front of the cart’s entrance. She had also lit lanterns on the wagon’s front and behind the windows, leaving the curtains open. The night air had chilled the interior, but there was nothing in it anyway, and Frey sat outside, walking around and looking busy if she was not huddled in a blanket. Other shapes were huddled near the campfire too. They didn’t move, being created from haystacks as if they were sleeping figures. The three persons that accompanied her had left already, sneaking through the reeds and rejoining the others with the horses. She was baiting the orcs alone.

Earlier that day, the four of them had made a show of crossing the river towards the west bank. They had travelled around a little bit, clueless, and had made a rather visible camp place on a small bald hill in sight of the river. As soon as the night set in, the others had left to bring the draught horse in safety. The attack would happen this night, and Tigraxauda would need every able rider that could shoot a bow.

Some of her scouts and Wingureiks men had crossed the river on foot even earlier, and had hidden in the lands between here and the mountains. They were their spies, and they were to watch from whence the orcs came, when they came out to attack the bait. That way, they could discover the secret orc camp, where, presumably, the prisoners were penned up. By now, the location would be found out and the spies would have rejoined the others who laid in hiding in the hills.

Frey sighed. Being bait had some heroics in them, but it was hardly the tale she wanted to tell Beorn, Eormengils and the others when she came back. She needed bravery, because waiting for the enemy to attack you when you’re all alone and open is not something easy. Although she tried to deny it, she was nervous. Her thumping foot and restless hands told her. She had checked on everything over and over again. The lanterns were lit and visible, the campfire was burning. Underneath the wagon’s axles, her shield lay ready, as well as a bow. Tigraxauda had been furious she’d broken the rules of her captivity, although she also knew that Frey had helped to avoid bloodshed. She understood that she had been the only person that could defuse the escalation and that in doing so, she had done the tribe a favour. So she wasn’t severely punished. Frey had more or less volunteered to be the bait in the plan, but even so, Tigraxauda didn’t want to give her a sword. This was more not so much to punish Frey as to show the tribe she was still a prisoner and didn’t get special treatment. Besides, if the plan went well, no orc or goblin would get within a few sword’s lengths of Frey. All she had to do, once the attack began, was to be calm and sit it out. The nomad amazon had promised Frey that she’d look after her, and asked Akhsartag and Súragaitha to do the same. Frey had negotiated for a shield and one of the others had left a bow for her. Frey assumed Tigraxauda knew but preferred to turn a blind eye.

And so Frey waited. Whenever she thought she heard something, she nervously got up and did her round around the phony camp-place. If the orcs were watching, they’d be watching for signs of life. Besides, a moving target was harder to hit and when the first black arrow came, she preferred it to go into the hay decoys sitting by the fire.

She sat down again, but saw something from the periphery of her vision. Something had moved in the reeds by the river’s edge. She squinted, and saw a grey shape flapping in the reeds. A water fowl, shooting up majestically from her hiding place. Startled, perhaps by... Then Freydis smelt it, a foul stench drifting downwind. She skipped a heartbeat.

Suddenly, she heard a fell war-cry and the orcs fell on the camp, peppering it with arrows. They plunged in the grass or thumped in the wagon boards. Frey jumped up. One of her wicker-man friends had already been pierced by an arrow. She ducked and jumped to safety between the wagon’s wheels. Around her, arrows fell like hailstones. She saw the first black silhouettes running towards the wagon and nervously, she knocked her first arrow on the small bow. She had to wait to shoot until she was certain of her shot, when she saw the evil glint in their eyes.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, Tigraxauda’s riders left their hiding places. Their hooves thumped the dry ground and their bows sang. Orcs fell down, killed by arrows from unseen riders. Frey yanked her bow and loosened her first arrow with a shout. The orcs panicked and turned away from the wagon. More arrows flew and still the enemy couldn’t be seen. They turned their heads left and right. One ran up the hill towards the wagon. Freydis missed him and her fingers fumbled nocking the second arrow. Suddenly, swift as the wind, hooves thumped into view and passed behind the orc. A single slash of a curved blade in passing and the orc fell down into the grass. The rider was as quickly engulfed by the darkness as they had spawned from it, but Freydis was certain it had been Tigraxauda.

By then some of the riders had lighted torches, dropping some in the ground and lighting pre-arranged haystacks. This gave them some visibility on the orcs and it only increased their confusion, because they hated light. It became clear that the riders were riding in a big circle around them, trapping them.

But Frey knew, as did Tigraxauda wherever she was, that they were gravely outnumbered by the orcs. Besides that, although every one of her riders, from the youngest to the eldest, knew how to ride and hit a mark with a bow, they wouldn’t fare well in close quarters with the brutal orcs and their cruel weapons. Only one of the riders could fight from horseback, only one among them was a warrior. The success of their ambush would only be possible if they could continue to veil these things from the orcs. They had to play the game of numbers and wait for the men of Wingureiks to do their part. Tigraxauda had been very clear to her riders: stay far away from the orcs, do not attempt to engage them up close. She was looking out for the tribe more than anything.

Overall, the riders succeeded in drawing away the attention of the orcs from the wagon in the centre. However, a small band of orcs separated and attempted to cross the field to seize the wagon. They were protected by big black shields, from which some of the nomad’s arrows stuck. With only a few arrows left, things were starting to look pretty bleak for Frey as they jogged towards the carriage.


	21. The Ambush II

Suddenly, a horn blew faraway in the distance, resounding against the hillsides. Frey’s heart leapt; it was a Northman horn. Wingureiks and his riders had penetrated into the mountain camp, and were attacking the remainder of the orcs there in order to free the prisoners. Tigraxauda’s riders wheeled around and started galloping towards the mountains, as was planned. One by one, they disappeared into the night.

A rider leapt from the shadows into one of the fires, hooves smashing and blustering up cinders. Pieces of burning hay floated around as the rider rode through. The stallion’s coat was covered with black paint and was slick with sweat. In full control of the horse, the rider sat straight up, her face suddenly lighted by the burst of fiery light. Her skin too was covered in black paint, and she wore a dark coat, billowing in the hot air. Tigraxauda’s face was taut and concentrated, her slanted eyes scanning the field. In her left hand she held a black horn bow, arrow already knocked. In the other hand she lowered a naked scimitar, sullied with black blood. She did not hold reins, steering the horse with her powerful legs only. Frey gasped at her majesty as she appeared in the whirling cinders. Truly, she could be measured up to the kings and queens of any of the Free Peoples and it would be a terror to have her as enemy.

A brisk galop brought her up the hill to Frey’s hiding place halting at the summit. The orcs were already running up the hill, eager to get their hands on the immovable rider.

“Freydis! Quickly!” she shouted. Frey abandoned her bow and shield and leapt out from below the wagon. Tigraxauda pulled her bowstring, curving the arms of her bow as if they were willow. The bowstring cracked like a whip and an orc fell down, thrown back a few steps by the force of the arrow’s impact. Frey ran towards her and jumped onto the back of the small nomad horse. Her arms clasped around Tigraxauda’s familiar waist as she spurred the horse. But the orcs were only metres away, brandishing spears and sabres and closing a circle around them.

“Your sword, take it! In the saddlebag!”

Freydis obeyed and her hand reached in front, finding the cold pommel of her sword. She snaked her fingers around the haft and drew it from the scabbard. It’s ancient steel shone with a cold flame and a shiver passed over Frey’s back. The sword Hrimfang! Her sword. It filled her with a deafening desire to perform heroic deeds. Those who wore the blade before her beckoned her. Fram, son of Frumgar. Wiglaf, son of Wihstan. Winfrith, Eorl’s kinsman. Eormengils, son of Eormanaric. She had taken it, and it would be her blade only if she performed heroic deeds with it. She had borrowed it, and she knew the price. More orcs appeared from the blackness, joining the iron chain around them.

“Hang onto me!” Tigraxauda shouted. “We’re gonna break through! Don’t even think about getting off!” The horse gathered speed and dashed towards the weakest link of the encircling orcs. Tigraxauda raised her sabre. The horse wheeled skilfully just before the orc jabbed with his spear, causing him to lunge in thin air. The next moment was fatal, as a nomad sabre fell and separated his pitiful head from his shoulders. On the other side of the horse, Frey’s long sword floored a second orc. The circle was broken and the way was free. The horse galloped down the hill, speeding up as it did. Frey laughed, exhilarated. “We got them!” She shouted in Tigraxauda’s ear. The tight feeling in her stomach left and made place for a very light feeling. They met up with Akhsartag, who threw away his torch when he saw Frey. There were still orcs running around them, but they were too far away to be a real threat.

Then, suddenly, a final surprise from Evil. A loud howl could be heard over the battlefield. Wolves! Grey shapes shot over the battlefield with unnatural, predatory speed. Wargs from the north. There were snarls and horses were whinnying. Tigraxauda looked around, a look of terror on her face. She and Akhsartag sped their horses onwards, but they were chased by evil wolves.

Whether it was the skill of the rider or the horse, Tigraxauda’s mount held its nerve. Akhsartag wasn’t so lucky. His horse panicked when the wolves appeared. Wolves always look for the easiest targets. One leapt and bit the horse’s ankles. It stumbled and threw off Akhsartag, who tumbled in the grass, shrieking.

“Tag!” Frey shouted. Tigraxauda turned her head. But their speed was so high that he was already behind them, disappeared in the shadow. Impulsively, Frey jumped off the horse, falling in the grass and nearly spraining her ankle. She got up and turned around, running to where the wolves were snarling.

“Akhsartag!” she yelled, “Hang on! You’re not alone!” She came to where he had fallen. Two wolves were finishing the horse a few metres away. The others, Freydis noticed to her dismay, had already made a circle around them.

“Frey!” Akhsartag said. He looked relieved but he was clearly in pain. His hands were clasped around his bow, but his quiver was broken underneath the horse.

“I know how to handle wolves!” Frey said. She stood up and started waving her sword around, laughing. “We’ll just scare them off! They’ll be content with the horse!” Then she saw how close they were, and she saw the red rage in their eyes. They snarled at her, not impressed by her antics.

“Frey – these are no ordinary wolves... They’re possessed by evil!”

“Can you stand?” Frey asked. There were more snarls nearby, but she could also hear hooves not far away.

“Yes – I think so...” the boy said, getting up with effort. One leg was clearly too painful to move, perhaps broken. The wolves gradually closed in on them. “But I can’t run...” They stood back to back. Frey clenched her jaw and raised her sword.

A rider rode into view, shouting at them. Súragaitha, from the sound of her voice. One of the wolves fell by her bow. Another rider appeared, felling yet another wolf. It was Tigraxauda. Frey was never happier to see anybody than her.

Hooking Akhsartag’s arm around her neck, Frey pulled him up and carried him. The wolves were temporarily confused by the arrival of the two riders, and she profited from that to make a run for it, going as fast as she could with Akhsartag. She had raised her sword protectively, because she knew the wolves would come for him first. While Tigraxauda distracted and attacked the wolves, Súragaitha galloped up to them and stopped.

“Take him to safety, quickly!” Frey yelled. Together with his sister, they raised the thin boy into the saddle, before his sister. Súragaitha took a long, hard look at Frey.

“I won’t forget this,” she said with a softer voice than Frey was accustomed to. Frey rolled her eyes. “Go quickly,” she repeated. “Don’t look back!” And at that, the siblings dashed away, clots of mud and grass flying in the air. When it went like this, Frey thought, heroism was easy. She turned around, raising Hrimfang in both hands. The wolves had left, they were chasing Tigraxauda. She heard them snarl and roar and Tigraxauda shout her war-cries in the distance.

A lull came over the field of battle. Frey was alone in the darkness with nothing but her sword. She was half of a mind to make a run for it, which wasn’t very smart, considering wolves ran faster than her. It would also be more difficult for Tigraxauda to find her. Neither Suragaitha nor Tigraxauda could be heard any more. In the distance, she could see the remains of the earlier battlefield. Fires were still smouldering, and she saw the wagon with the campfire and the lanterns. Another sound made her turn. Not wolves, but orcs had appeared on the scene; fanning out around her. In the middle, an orc stood which was the biggest and meanest-looking one Frey had ever seen. He was taller than her, by a head or more, and much broader. She swallowed. Nobody had told her orcs could get this big. In one of his thick, veiny hands he held the chains of two snarling wolves, in the other hand he held a brutal-looking sword. His arms were thick as young beeches. He smirked dangerously.

“So, man-girl,” he said. “You’re the one that baited us into this ambush? Don’t deny it. I can smell it was you.” He raised his sword at her. She felt fear, but swallowed it, remembering she lived for this. As long as she carried the sword, she had no doubt that she’d get out of it alive – or at least die heroically. Which comforted her.

“Yes, that was me,” she said haughtily. “I’m Friduisa Framatheis, of the Folk of Beorn. Tremble, orc, because tonight is where your plunderings end.” She sneered, feeling Hrimfangs hilt in her hands. “Your camp is destroyed, your prisoners have been released and we have taken back the treasure that belonged to us. Now, I will slay you and we will chase your sorry band of green-skins back into the mountains!”

Her overconfident boast had no effect on him that she could notice. Slowly, he began to grin. “Free. Do. Iss-ah… Free-duisa.” he repeated, savouring the syllables, as if her name was a kind of morsel in a sweeter language than his own. Then, he spat. Your name will mean nothing any more when we take you prisoner. You will simply be Slave. I will enjoy making you my thrall,” he growled. He released the two wolves at his side and they leapt towards her. Deftly, she killed the first one as he jumped at her, but the second one caught her arm. She punched his nose and he released his bite, but blood flowed over her arm and coloured the shreds of her sleeve. Another fell blow and she had killed the second wolf as well. The other orcs fell silent, but the leader started to laugh slowly. He had shed his black chainmail and cloak and thrown his shield aside. His musculature was impressive but brutish rather than handsome; his heavy frame was corded with bulging muscles, rolling underneath his dark, scarred skin. He looked like a bull.

“I’ll teach you myself, little bitch,” he grinned. “I’ll submit you by force and make you my slave.”

“You’re welcome to have a try,” Frey said impatiently. “But I’m a Free Woman of Wilderland and I’ll never bow to Evil!” For a moment, she was glad that she had a sword. The next moment, the orc chief attacked.

“Aurvandil!” Freydis shouted, invoking the name of the morning star for protection. They swung their swords at each other. Frey had the advantage of reach but the chieftain had more brute strength. Whenever his sword cleaved down, it split a stone or gnawed into the grass. Still, Frey couldn’t reach him. She huffed and sighed, putting all of her strength and skill in the blade.

“Fram, as you defeated the dragon Scatha, let me defeat this one! Let my blows be true and let me remain unharmed. Aurvandil! Hrimfang!”

They hacked away at each other, until suddenly, the orc wheeled with surprising speed, catching Frey off guard. A strong arm grabbed around her body. She struggled to get out, but the grapple was too strong for her to break. She felt his scoffing laugh against her ear as he raised her a foot above the ground.

“The game’s up, bait,” He sneered.

“Not... As long... as I hold my sword!” Frey shouted, driving the tip of Hrimfang into the orc’s boot. At that moment, a rider drove into the circle of orcs, scattering them and riding up to the chieftain. Tigraxauda raised her deadly sword, aiming for the chieftain’s head. She swung, but he spun just in time and caught the blade with his shoulder. It swung free, inflicting only a minor wound and Tigraxauda yelled in frustration. In her struggle to get out, Frey raised her fist and the pommel of her sword crashed against the orc’s chin. She jumped up as the horse shot past, grabbing Tigraxauda’s arm. She nearly dragged her out of the saddle as the horse dashed on, but eventually she succeeded in clambering back on the horse’s back, behind her saviour. The sabre swung, missing an orc but clearing the way, and the horse dashed into safety. Behind them, the chief shouted.

“This isn’t over, man-girl! This side of the River now belongs to the orcs! We will meet again! Friduisa! Friduissaah!” she yelled in the distance. A tinge of fear returned to Frey as they galloped away, both of them relieved for the relative safety of the moving, inexhaustible animal and the dark night cover.

“You should have let me handle him,” Freydis said with a frown. “Now he’s really mad.”

Tigraxauda gave her usual ironic chuckle. “Really? I can just drop you off here, if that’s what you like,”

“Better not,” Frey said, clinging tighter around her waist. “I eh... Maybe another time.” She looked at the morning star that had appeared low on the horizon. Dawn wasn’t far away any more. She thanked her protector, that had sent Tigraxauda at the right moment.

*

They rode to safety, when they were sure that they were far away from the orcs, and regrouped with the other riders as the grey light of dawn made it easier to see. The orcs too had regrouped and disappeared. In the west, in the folds of the mountains’ feet, a thick black smoke column rose: the remains of the orc camp.

Wingureiks and his riders waited at the fords of the river. The Wainspeople riders trickled in one by one or in pairs. They had covered the retreat as much as they could. Both their horses and the riders were tired, squinting against the early light. Wingureiks’ raid had been a success. Not only had he freed the prisoners, they had also freed a flock of horses and some other treasure the orcs had plundered. Although it was clear that Tigraxauda was exhausted, she insisted on inspecting and splitting the winnings, as they had agreed to before. As soon as they were in the safety of the eastern bank, they spread out the treasure on cloaks. Frey found Akhsartag and Súragaitha too, as well as her other friends. All of them had survived and they laughed and cried as they hugged and clapped each other’s tired shoulders.

Tigraxauda was unapproachable, though, and Súragaitha told Frey that she was disappointed that neither Targitaos nor Taghmaspa were among the prisoners. Wingureiks offered Tigraxauda first pick of the released horses. He had lost a few men in the fight, but he had saved many more. Clearly, he was impressed by Tigraxauda’s nimble horsemen. Afterwards they shook each other’s hands. The blood of battle bonded the tribes now, and there was hope of friendship.


	22. Enarei the Trickster

That night, there was a party in the nomad camp. The side flaps had been taken away from the storytelling tent and people were preparing it for dancing. Torches had been placed around the camp-place. Those who had slept were woken at sunset and everybody was roused for a shared banquet. Low tables had been placed on carpets on the grass, and people sat along them on cushions. Richly filled were those tables, because those who had not fought and heard of the good conclusion had worked all day to prepare a feast meal. Numerous luxurious dishes were placed on the table, none of which Frey had seen before. It was nearing summer and there was plenty of fresh food. Sweet dishes with dried fruits and nuts, savoury broths, plates with spiced rice and of course mutton, the tribe’s staple. In the tree branches above them, lanterns hung.

People could eat as much as they wanted and there was much laughter. Stories were told about the ambush and soon everyone knew at least half a dozen versions of what happened. Everyone of the riders had a different story to tell, because everyone was on their own in the darkness that night. But all the stories were proud, relieved and brimming with stories of comradery. More than a few of them had helped each other, and those who had ridden were now bonded with loyalty and trust. It was clear to all that such an exceptional success had only been possible because the tribe had hung together. To that simple truth almost all of the joys and exploits of the Wainspeople, great or small, could be boiled down.

A herder came forth, leaning on his staff. He was neither as old as the grandmothers or old men of the camp, nor as young as the youngsters. He belonged perhaps to the same generation as Tigraxauda, Takhmaspa and Targitaos. But he had never been a warrior, because he was blind. What had blinded him nobody ever told Frey, and she assumed he was born that way. Because of his affliction he had remained weak and thin, and he could not shoot a bow and ride a horse as skilfully as the others. He had to depend on his shepherd dog to help him get about. Mostly, he was one of the herdsmen that took the flocks away on long, slow journeys through the higher meadows. He had keen ears, however, and a knack for storytelling. He knew the legends of the Wainspeople very well, and when he told them, everybody listened with great respect to his weathered voice. Uyrysmag, because that was his name, sat down on a chair underneath the tree. His dog laid himself quietly at his feet. He stroked his beard.

“Tonight we feast. We feast to thank the ancestors for such a great victory. Our tribe took a great risk to help the golden-heads. We won horses and treasure and perhaps even new allies – at the cost of no-one of our tribe. None have fallen in battle, so we only have the living to raise our cups to. All of you. However,” Uyrysmag said, his voice trailing off in the silence and capturing the attention of the listeners. “The warriors Takhmaspa and Targitaos are still missing. We raise our cups to them and beseech the Ancestors to watch out for them, wherever they are, and guide them through nameless plains and dark nights back home to us. May the time for our two warriors to join our Ancestors in our eternal home, like all of our times, be yet a little further off.”

Everyone was silent for a while and took a sip from their cups. The blind storyteller continued.

“Many have ridden today with Tigraxauda and the straw-heads, and many have seen their first experience in battle. An ambush, perfect in form and execution. Enarei himself would be pleased. For all of you, who have taken part in their first ambush, I will tell the stories of that great Trickster.”

People shuffled closer, sprawling on pillows around him. His voice was strong and carried well but even so everybody was as quiet as ever. And Uyrysmag told them the stories about Enarei, one of their most beloved hero-ancestors.

Enarei had told the Wainspeople the secret of the wheel and how to travel. He had told them to mistrust the stars and navigate not by them, but he showed them the secrets of the moon, the Night Eye, and its phases and secret meanings. Enarei did not receive a home in the skies like the other gods, so he chose the entire earth: the plains and the hills and the forests and rivers. But even in it, he chose no abode and made no house that could not be picked up and moved. He loved the earth too much to be bound to a single homeland. He was the first nomad. Enarei is prayed to by Wainspeople before long travel, just as Argimpasa is prayed to before battle.

Enarei was also a trickster spirit. He was a legendary ancestor and guardian spirit of the royal Wainspeople to which Zixaïs belonged. He understood bird song and traded his eyesight for foresight. A third eye opened on his forehead as he gained this, while his other eyes turned milky white. To the Wainspeople he was a guardian spirit, a trickster who can avoid getting caught by changing shape. To the other folk of Middle Earth, he is often a hated antagonist. He is called Lopt by the Northmen, Lóthur by the Elves of the Wood. Frey knew him, but she had never thought that Lopt could be the most beloved god of anybody. He was known to be a trickster, a coward and a traitor. Nothing Lopt did was free of mischief or even worse evil. The stories of the Wainspeople were different, and their hero was a prankster and a shapeshifter, sly as a fox, using clever tricks and disguises to stay ahead of his opponents.

The spirit that the Wainspeople venerated had lived many lives before he became Enarei, the Trickster. He was a great spirit, a Maia in the language of the Elves, a spirit who was there before the dawn of the world. But he slept and did not wake up until the entire world was brimming with life. Still he sought the empty spaces.

He besought the Valar to grant him foresight, but they were loathe to give that secret knowledge that to him, a lazy vagabond. Instead, he tricked them and stole it from Néfréa the Doomkeeper and Swefnfréa, the Dream-Lord.

Some sages say this spirit is Sauron in disguise, the trickster Maia before he became the Enemy. Among the wise his names are Sidsa and Mairon, the Necromancer, an epithet he has earned by his theft of the secret of death of Néfréa.

Some say that the trickster from these stories is no-one less than Morgoth, who the Elves say stole the Silmarils. Freydis and the Northmen know very little about these elven histories. They fear the Dark Lord, but whether he is Morgoth or Sauron or the Necromancer, they do not know. Many of these stories bleed together. There are hardly Elves in Wilderland willing to instruct humans and humans willing to listen to Elves.

This illiteracy has been exploited by Sauron, the Maia of many disguises. He has used the darkness of Wilderland to his advantage by becoming known as the Necromancer in his exile from Mordor. Few know that the Necromancer is in fact Sauron. The Sindarin name Sauron is known to the Northmen, but like most of the Free Peoples, he is referred to as the Dark Lord. Few realize this is the same as the Necromancer of Dol Guldur. Fewer even believe he is the Maia Sidsa. They say it was in disguise that he gained the loyalty of the Wainriders in the East, long before he called upon them to fight in his war in Rhovanion. Whether this is true and Enarei is derived from one of the guises of Sauron is open for speculation. The wheel and the round eye are very important symbols for the nomads, but for them it is connected with the mystical moon rather than the lidless eye. The Wainspeople believe that their ancestors were misled by their priest-kings, but maintain faith in Enarei. Frey has learned that they are very sensitive about the matter. They told her that equating their ancestor spirit with the devil of the Elves and Northmen only underscores the ill will and prejudices that the settled people have had against them for centuries.

Some stories were more idiosyncratic to the Wainspeople. Enarei, Frey was told, was also both male and female, a gift which came along with his prophetic sight. In Wainspeople mythology, he mated with a stag or a stallion to beget the royal line. These stories were wildly exotic for Freydis, and she did not find any parallels in her Northman mythos.

Even the stories about Enarei and his tribe, as the blind storyteller told them to Freydis and the others, were very diverse. But after a while, Frey started to notice that there was something lacking. Something that was at the same time so ubiquitous in the stories of her own home-lands. Most often, there was no other antagonist than the weather and the dangerous nature. And whenever a personified villain appeared, like a god, or an animal spirit or mortal, he was always tricked or befriended by Enarei. Conflict was rare and subtle, and never about violence. It was as if the Wainspeople did not remember their wars, or did not care. It was as if their struggles and conflicts were not about good versus evil, of tribe versus tribe, of human versus human. Her own stories were full of them. The fight of Fram against the dragon, the wars against the Witch King or against Goblin chiefs. Or against other humans, such as the savage and cruel ancestors of the Wainspeople, or the Dwarves of the Grey Mountains. Or perhaps even, in the oldest lays, the struggle against the Dark Lord, the eternal demon that destroyed Hollin, Fornost or even splendid Gondolin. All of the Northmen knew the Saga of Eorl and could recite the rhymed Catalogue of Kinsmen that fought at the battle of the Gladden Fields, wherever that was. Many of their finest songs were minutely based on a historical conflict, preserved through the centuries. Always there were fights, shields shattered, gleaming swords, high helmets and a just cause. Frey knew it well – it was why she had taken the sword of Eormengils and why she wanted to become a warrior. All of these were absent in the stories about Enarei, who tricked and divined in poems and made bows sing and veils dance but never went to war.

Another thing that surprised Freydis, now that she started to pick up a thing or two about the language of the Wainspeople, was that none of their stories rhymed. Like with the puppetry tales, every generation had their own style of telling the age-old stories, because there was no rhyme and metre that preserved the old lore.

Like the victory stories of last night’s riders, the legends of the Wainspeople seemed to be about working together and outwitting opponents to get what they wanted. The spirit of comradry was more than embellishment or brotherhood. Seeing the hard lives that they eked out and their difficult history, Frey realized that this might be core virtue around which their entire society was built. The virtue that their stories taught them. The thing that kept them alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### Deities of the Northmen
> 
> Unlike the people from Gondor or Eriador, the Men of the North of Wilderland have not had much contact with the Eldar or the Men of Westernesse. They know little about Valinor, the Valar and the pantheon of the Noldor. Only one of the Valar ever appeared to the Humans, millennia ago: Oromë the Huntsman. Though he was sympathetic of the mortal humans, he did not instruct them as thoroughly as he did the Elves. The gods of the Northmen are derived from the stories of their ancestors from centuries of reverence and storytelling. Many of their gods appear related to the deities of the Silvan Elves, but the Eldar, who have been in the West, do not use these names, confessing only their faith in the Valar.
> 
> [Béma](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Orom%C3%AB) the Hunter, also known as Araw, the chief Northmen deity. He rides accompanied by two eagles, the ancestors of the Great Eagles of the Misty Mountains. On his side is a mighty hunting horn.  
> [Wána](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/V%C3%A1na) the Golden, his wife. She is the goddess of flowers, fertility and the growing of wheat.  
> [Eord](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Est%C3%AB) the Pale, the Goddess of twilight, water and rain: a healing goddess.   
> [Néfrea](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Mandos), the Doomkeeper, the Ordainer. He keeps the souls of the dead in the underworld that lies behind a great river or sea.  
> [Swefnfréa](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Irmo) the Dream-Lord, his brother, whom the Elves call Lórien. For the Northmen, he is a mystical god of divination.  
> [Niht](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Nienna), Lady of Mourning and Pity. In many stories she is the most concerned for humans. A sinister goddess nonetheless, she chooses who lives and who falls on the battlefield. She flies their souls to the halls of Néfréa.  
> [Sidswyrhta](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Sauron) or Sidsa, the Dark Lord or the Sorceror. He is a master of disguises and black magic. The Northmen believe he is the same as the one that the Elves and Men of Westernesse call Morgoth (if they realize there is a difference). He was also responsible for the Fall of Hollin and the Witch-Kingdom of Angmar, although few know those stories and even less realize that those lands actually exist. He is also thought to have poisoned the Wainriders and spurred them to ravage Wilderland. The Necromancer is either his servant or himself in yet another disguise. He is also often called Lopt in children's stories; a malicious prankster or downright evil shapeshifter.  
> [Aurvandil](https://tolkien-1.obsidianportal.com/wikis/Aurvandil/new), or Eärendil, the Morning Star. Hero of mankind as well as Elvenkind.


	23. Beltane

# Beltane

_Austro, Northern Vales of the Anduin  
Thrimidge, T.A. 2946_

It became the month of Thrimidge, which the Northmen of the Vales called Thrimiluki, and spring surged in the lands. The broom and hawthorn were blooming bright yellow and white now, and the greyness which had lingered in the previous weeks was gone now. Fresh green leaves now crowned the grey winter-weary branches. The Holiday of Beltane became closer. Frey learned that for the Wainspeople this was only a minor holiday, a day for the sweat-hut and a special meal – if there was time in between the many chores that were now to be done. But for the Northmen, this was an important feast. In Beorn’s hall, the mead casks of last year that had survived the winter were now opened. There would be many hunting parties and a special oatcake would be made, with spices and honey glaze. Fresh hazel bundles would be tied to the door-jambs and there would be flowers around the eaves of the hall. A great bonfire would be made outside and in the hall and there would be a banquet. Frey would miss out on the food, but also on the storytelling. She was only too happy to hear that messengers had come up from the Northmen of Austro to invite them to join their feast, which was perhaps equally splendid because they belonged to the same cultural sphere.

The invitation was made to the Queen of the Wainriders, and there was some laughter and discussion in the camp that day whether they were being overly polite towards Princess Zixaïs or whether they meant Tigraxauda. But Frey, who knew their language well, explained that they did not have a special word for ‘princess’. They had an honorific title for the wife of a king, ‘thiudana’, (which was also used when the woman was Queen in her own right). Children of royals were called with the term ‘athaling’, which was the same whether it was a boy or a girl. Some titles, like ‘fráuja’, ‘lady’, would be used regardless of gender too. Frey said that it would be strange to use the term ‘athaling’ for them, because it was not honorific enough. To a smirking Zixaïs and a sceptical Tigraxauda she explained that the Northmen had no words for the subtleties that the language of the Wainspeople possessed regarding female rulers. The word they used was simply ‘lady’, she said, and they probably meant Lady Zixaïs.

“Well,” Tigraxauda said matter of factly, “there is no way that our princess is going without me. And you’re coming too, Beorning, to interpret these ‘subtleties’ for us.”

And that was that. The three of them would go to the hall of Austro on Beltane.

The relationship between the two tribes were better than ever before. However, none of the Wainspeople had been inside the stronghold of Wingureiks yet and they still hadn’t allowed any of the Northmen into their camp. Tigraxauda still cycled some of her riders as sentinels on the south-western ridges, making sure that the Northmen never learned the exact location of the camp. But this good-natured invitation was a sign of thankfulness and openness. Accepting it would signal trust and mutual understanding, so Frey and the others were happy that the relations would perhaps soon be better.

They could offer no weapons, jewelry, precious metals or other such customary treasures as gift. On Frey’s advice, the spinsters of the Wainspeople started working on a beautiful embroidered caftan: a regal garment of wool with felt embroideries. This, she said, would be equally well received. She also told them what they could expect more or less: a banquet and a feast. Apart from her tentative descriptions, however, they did not know what they were heading into. Frey promised Akhsartag and her friends that she would relate everything that happened and what they ate afterwards. Now that the threat the newcomers had posed had been mitigated, the tribespeople were excitedly curious about the Northmen. None of them could remember that any of the Wainspeople had been invited for a feast in one of their halls before.

Tigraxauda, who seemed to be the only one that was still suspicious, decided to bring an escort of her young riders along. Súragaitha – who had become her most prodigious pupil especially since the ambush, would stay behind and oversee the protection of the camp and the flock. The escort would accompany them up to the settlement and would camp close by with extra horses in secret, in case something went wrong.

They got on their horses in the morning and followed the trail-less hills towards the valley of Austro, to arrive mid-afternoon. Zixaïs, like always, rode no horse, and a small wagon had been prepared for her. It was adorned with white and pink hawthorn and golden rowan, primrose and deep purple vanimoron that the shepherds had taken from the highlands. When they came to the gate, the sentinels of Austro looked in awe and excitement to the veiled wagon and the women in front of it. Their escort left them as the wagon rolled over the sturdy drawbridge.

Austro was a young, small settlement but the inhabitants had made quick work to put a sturdy palisade around it. A moat had been dug, which was partly submerged by the small mountain stream that ran through the valley. There were two gates in the palisade: one to the south-west, towards the River, the other towards the north-east, towards the hills where the Wainspeople lived. Both were guarded by a robust blockhouse that offered some view of the valley. Inside the palisade, there were some longhouses, some still being built, an open air smithy and some temporary shelters. On a small hill in the middle, underneath a mighty linden tree whose fresh green canopy shivered in the spring air, there was a high-crested, regal longhouse. Sturdy beams supported the roof and the thatch was still green. Frey smiled as she saw the gate: bunches of flowering golden hazel rods had been hung against the door-jambs.

Underneath the awning Wingureiks was waiting for them. He wore a green cloak, but no chainmail or sword-belt – which was an odd sight for them. They had grown familiar to his ubiquitous chainmail and his iconic horse-plume helmet. He welcomed them with courteous words. The wagon was placed underneath the eaves of the Linden tree – stable-boys took the yoke of the horses and took them away for grooming and care. Frey and Tigraxauda jumped out of the saddle and slowly opened the door of the car. The inhabitants of Austro, men and women, child or elderly, gathered in a wide circle around them, holding their breath and standing tiptoe to watch the wagon. It was dark inside. The only thing that could be heard inside, as everyone held their breath, was a faint tinkling of small bells and jewelry.

Wingureiks stepped towards the wagon and knelt, bowing down his face deeply so that locks of his silver-golden hair fell and crested his weathered cheeks. Some of the men and women around him did the same. Tigraxauda raised her hand towards the door and an elegant, small hand reached out to take it. Ochre and sienna flowers were painted between the intricate black vines and patterns, a layer of spring that Frey had not seen. Then the princess stepped out.

Like everyone, Frey was watching eagerly and nearly gasped when she saw Zixaïs step into the light. She had a golden headdress now, with beautiful circles and chains woven around her hair and on her brow. A big golden hairpin was set in her black hair. It showed a stylized lion with wings: a regal griffon of the East. There were red beads in its eyes. Zixaïs’ forehead was bedecked with tiny golden discs which caught the sun, and two braids leapt down from her temples, woven through with white flowers. Flowers were painted too on her cheeks, and her black eyes looked around haughtily. None could question now that their leader was indeed every bit as elegant as they had expected: the mysterious Gypsy Princess of which they had heard so much. She stepped down the steps of the wagon, small slippers underneath her flowing, embroidered robes. To make her attire, perhaps more effort, time and craft had been necessary than for the whole village around them. None of the Northmen, not even Wingureiks their King, looked as distinguished as she.

Wingureiks got up and kissed her hand, exchanging more polite phrases. No one listened as he expounded how his words were outdone by her beauty, because it was true. Not perhaps beauty, because for Northmen that was something usually attributed to tall and fair-haired women, but some nameless attraction and mystery that they all felt. Zixaïs said nothing, a mere tinkling nod of her head, and despite her youth she looked perfectly in control of the situation. She looked over his head towards all the eyes staring at her, with a mixture of curiosity and loftiness

Freydis and Tigraxauda went into the wagon and brought the embroidered caftan, offering it to Wingureiks. “A gift from Lady Zixaïs and the Wainspeople tribe,” Frey said, “To King Wingureiks, as a token of our friendship.”

The chief of the Wainspeople took it, thankfully. He then guided them into the hall. Two gate wardens – the only armed persons that they had seen apart from the sentinels at the gate – stopped Tigraxauda and asked for her weapons. She looked indignated, but Frey caught her eyes and nodded. Both of them turned their weapons in, Frey made the wardens give their word to keep Hrimfang safe.

Inside the hall, there had been preparations to seat the entire tribe. Big bonfires would be lit and fires to roast the meat amid the benches and trestle-tables. There was a shallow dais on one end of the hall, spilling over with tables too. That was where the Wingureiks and his honoured guests would sit, as well as many servants and retainers.

*

The air of formality and politeness persisted until the sun was setting. Most of the people was seated in the hall and had eaten, and now people were mixing in the tables or going out to drink by the bonfires. Frey had a conversation with Tigraxauda about mead, inviting her to try and get drunk for once. Wingureiks was talking with his chief housecarls. By now he had exhausted all of his polite phrases to Zixaïs, and he was trying to figure out whether her continued silence meant that she was ill at ease or unhappy with the feast. She was sitting alone now in the middle of the table, like a bored child among adults, casting dark glances into the fire. She felt the sidelong glances of the people at the tables in the hall and even on her own table. She had caught Wingureik’s look more than once, and she was trying to figure out whether he fancied her or whether he was studying the leader of a neighbouring tribe. But unlike him, her thoughts were better shielded and her face remained hardly moveable. His doubt could be read from his face. He was a warrior: dependable, loyal and protective to his tribe. A shrewd strategist and brave warrior, no doubt, placing the safety of his tribe over the thought of glory, like the ambush had proven. But he was not good with intrigue or with politics. She could see that her mysterious allure had fascinated him and that he yearned to get to know her. He was perhaps three times her age, but she felt very empowered, even comfortable to talk and play with him.

“Tell me, lord Wingureiks,” she said with an accent. They talked Westron, which was related to the language of the Northmen but foreign to the speech of the Wainspeople. It was the language that she spoke with Frey and she had gotten better the past weeks. She insisted on learning it better, and keeping the language of the Wainspeople secret. “You have not introduced us to your family. Are there any here that are your kinsmen? Do you have wives and children?”

“Ah,” Wingureiks said, turning towards her with a cup of mead. “Forgive me for not mentioning my kin. It is because I do not have any. I would have certainly introduced you. My brothers and cousins were killed when the orcs attacked our settlement.”

“But surely you have wives and children? Or had, perhaps. Stop me when I’m asking questions that I shouldn’t, please.”

“No, it’s fine,” Wingureiks said, shaking his head. “I have no wife and did not lose one. I was never married.”

“Not even one?”

“It’s not our custom to have more than one spouse,” Wingureiks said.

“Oh. But I have seen many young women here – and I believe it is thanks to you and your warriors that many of the villagers of your earlier settlement were saved. I’m sure you could have found at least one good mate if you wanted. Is it not customary for a king of your folk to beget heirs?”

“It is. But I do not consider myself a King, even though some call me that. I was a warrior before, a housecarl of our previous chief. Me and the others are the only ones that are left – the others died by his side in the hall-burning when the orcs attacked. We escaped only because our leader commanded us to flee with a big portion of the villagers. I was simply the most senior warrior and they chose me to lead them. I have no royal blood and I am no one’s heir. Likewise I do not intend to pass on my title to my children. I’m too old for that anyway. When I become grey and bent, my people will elect a successor.”

Zixaïs nodded. “That is a noble custom, and very humble of you. Many would abuse their newfound power. I see you as a good leader. I do not wish to sound impertinent. But I do not believe that it is too late for you to take a wife and sire children, even if you don’t want to burden them with leadership. I’m sure many would want you as a mate.”

Wingureiks chuckled. “The thought never crossed my mind, my lady. As a housecarl, we were dedicated to the lord, and few of us married. Perhaps you are right. I would love to have had a proud daughter like you.” He smiled and Zixaïs too, a little bit, for the first time, and she graciously said “Thank you.”

“How is it for you?” Wingureiks continued. “Friduisa told me that you are no Queen yet, that you are called Princess. But she couldn’t tell me more.”

“Let me start by telling you that for us, we are not limited to having only one mate. Spouse. Some men take many wives and even a woman of importance can take husbands – or wives. It is not common. But it is accepted, encouraged even for nobility.”

At this, Wingureiks raised his eyebrows and looked genuinely shocked.

“Apart from that – I’ll become a Queen when I come of age, regardless of how many mates I have. I cannot take spouses when I am not of age. And to be honest, I don’t think much about children already. I don't think it's something for me. I’m not overly fond of men at any rate. None in our tribe have the nobility or the mettle to become my husband. I will adopt children later. You see, it is our Ancestors that choose our royals. I belong to a royal lineage which is more than a lineage of blood. Our ancestors speak through us and choose us. I have been chosen by my Ancestor, the progenitor of my line, and they guard us continually. There are more tribes like ours, each led by a royal.”

Wingureiks became positively uncomfortable thinking about ancestor spirits and black magic, and it showed. Zixaïs smirked slightly. Mischief was the only emotion she could hardly resist.

“You have to know that our royals are diviners and sorceresses too. Many of us have been given talent in magic arts.” She said loftily. She remembered all too well that the prodigiousness of her people with the dark arts came from the past, when their connection with Evil was still strong. Even now, when they were free of the yoke of the Dark Lord, they could not shake that connection. It was partly why the Northmen and the other Free People shunned her folk – but now, she was secretly proud of it. Black magic ran through her veins. "I too am versed in the arts of divination and witchcraft."

Her painted hand reached out and grasped Wingureiks old hand. She folded it open and looked at his palm with dark eyes.

“Many glorious deeds still await you, Wingureiks of the Northmen. You will not fall in battle, but become old and grey as you say. Your people will prosper. I see clearly that Austro will persist and become a safe home for your people… I also see a beautiful woman...”

Wingureiks took his hand back, and Zixaïs grinned at him. That grin was easily the least dignified thing she had done since arriving in Austro.

“That’s eh… That’s enough… Thank you...” he said doubtfully, rubbing his hand as if he wanted to rub off whatever she had just read, fate and all.

“You’re always master of your own fate, Lord Wingureiks,” Zixaïs said to him, soothingly. “No divination can change that.”

*


	24. Frey's Dream

# Frey's Dream

_Thrimidge, T.A. 2946_

Far down below her, the Anduin shimmered like a spilled yarn of silver, multi-threaded around unseen islets and rocks. The misty mountains were dark grey masses rising even higher than her wing, underneath her other wing there was the dark expanse of Mirkwood, where scores of trees stood thickly, branch against branch, each one vying to have the highest tip. Above it all there were wisps of mist, like a shredded blanket laying over the Vales of the Anduin, running from the dales and cracks of the Misty Mountains all the way into the trees of the vast forest. It was as if the grey clouds of evening itself had lowered themselves to sleep among the folds and creases of the earth, like a flock of sheep, because above her the sky was clear, star-scattered and adorned with a single bright sickle. Somewhere down there, underneath the clouds, Freydis’ body was laying asleep, safe and undisturbed in the camp of the Wainspeople.

It had been a while she had travelled in dreams like this, lucid, in the shape of a swan along the night sky. The days among the wagon folk were long and exhausting, and truth to be told, the nights as well. Seldom was there a night anymore that did not have its own adventure where Frey was loathe to miss out on the experiences of her own familiar body. There were storytelling nights, nights where she bonded with one of the tribe, or when she slept in the warrior’s wagon. Only a few night ago she had had a Beltane feast to never forget. When she was left to sleep tranquilly too, underneath the warrior's wagon, she was loathe to trade her dreams for dreamwalking. Because however awesome and exhilarating swan flight was for a mortal like her, often her unconscious dreams turned to the princess, and to Tigraxauda. Those dreams were too dear to her to miss out on them.

But tonight, she had felt the urge for adventure and discovery strongly, and when she had dozed off finally, her dreams turned to her flying high above the nightly Anduin. It always went like this. At some point, she became conscious of her dream and was able to take control. She never knew how she got there, or how she transformed, and it was never of her own volition. Once, at Beorn’s hall, she found the way back home and flew into the rafters to the cot that was hers. Only to find her own body there, sleeping. But that was seldom more interesting than what else she could do. Tonight, she had flown high and far, crossing the River here and there, discovering new islands and side streams. She flew over the howling wolves on the far banks, and landed in ice-cold lakes far to the north, dipping her slender neck in the cold feed-streams of the Anduin. She went almost as far as the old lands of the Éothéod, where Fram had built his mighty burg and whence Eorl the Younger had ridden to the sought with the whole of his mighty host. She remembered the old folk songs that Eormengils had sung in Beorn’s hall, and poems about the horse-people. Like their connection to horses, like Beorn' connection with bears, her connection to swans was innate. They were her birth animal. Perhaps she was the last of the people of the swans, who lived on this or that side of the Misty Mountains, or far to the east beyond the Forest and the Sea of Rhûn, to the steppes and the lakes whence the Wainspeople came from. Or perhaps the people of the swans were all around her, and all other swans were just like her, sometimes people, sometimes swans. Swans could travel north and south, east and west. Who could tell where or what they really were when they were away? Perhaps a greater purpose was set out for her, something she could not yet uncover safe for flying out now and then and heeding the call for adventure and heroics that was so strong inside of her. As she thought deeply about this, stretching her wings wide in the night sky, the morning star appeared in the sky. Brighter than the others stars, and already the luminous hems of his sail were showing. The starlight flashed from the oar-blades, paddling solemnly in the cold night air. Aurvandil! The Heavenly mariner! Her protector spirit, but also herald of the dawn, when she’d return to her body and wake up, as if from any other dream. How she would like to fly to that bright star and see for herself that great hero, in his silver-white swan boat, cleaving through the heavens with a gemstone on his breast. But for her nightly dream shape it was impossible to reach the morning star, as impossible as it is for the moon to catch the sun.

Suddenly, she became aware of another bird behind her. She tried to wheel but the vague figure remained at her tail, following her. Craning her neck, she saw a single slender bird, a swan like her, but less grey and dim, even in the sunless twilight. The bird flew at a distance from her, and Freydis reduced speed, flapping her wings more slowly so the other swan could gain in on her. Soon, Freydis was flying above the other bird and next to her, where she could watch her more closely. The gestures of her wings were elegant and refined, and her span was wide although she was smaller than her. Her neck was thin and her entire shape was pleasing to Freydis, whether as swan or as human. She tried to move closer and touch the other bird with her feathers, or try to communicate somehow, but the morning was already upon them. Far to the east, the blackness of the night’s sky diluted into streaks of grey light that dissolved the stars one by one, heralding the coming of the brightest of them all. Frey looked at the swan one more time and then she woke up. She opened her eyes and the image was gone, as sure as a dream in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm going to take a break from rewriting and updating every week, and focus on some other projects. If somebody still wants to read more, let me know! I'll be revisiting this story now and then throughout the summer to add chapters.
> 
> -Kasasagi


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